LOOKING TOWARD SUNSET.

    FROM

    SOURCES OLD, NEW, ORIGINAL,
    AND SELECTED.

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    LOOKING TOWARD SUNSET.

    _From Sources Old and New, Original
    and Selected._

    BY L. MARIA CHILD.


    “When the Sun is setting, cool fall its gleams upon the earth,
    and the shadows lengthen; but they all point toward the Morning.”
                                                  JEAN PAUL RICHTER.

  “I am fully convinced that the Soul is indestructible, and that
    its activity will continue through eternity. It is like the
      Sun, which, to our eyes, seems to set in night; but it
           has in reality only gone to diffuse its light
                       elsewhere.”--GOETHE.

    [Illustration]


    BOSTON:
    HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY.
    The Riverside Press, Cambridge.
    1881.




    Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by

    L. MARIA CHILD,

    in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District
    of Massachusetts.


    TWELFTH EDITION.




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    TO

    MY DEAR AND HONORED FRIENDS

    MISS LUCY OSGOOD
    AND
    MISS HENRIETTA SARGENT,

    _This Volume_

    IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED,

    IN TOKEN OF GRATITUDE FOR THEIR EXAMPLE,
    WHICH CONFERS BEAUTY AND DIGNITY ON DECLINING YEARS,
    BY ACTIVE USEFULNESS AND KINDLY SYMPATHY
    WITH THE HUMAN RACE.

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PREFACE.


I occasionally meet people who say to me, “I had many a pleasant
hour, in my childhood, reading your Juvenile Miscellany; and now I
am enjoying it over again, with my own little folks.”

Such remarks remind me that I have been a long time in the world;
but if a few acknowledge me as the household friend of two
generations, it is a pleasant assurance that I have not lived
altogether in vain.

When I was myself near the fairy-land of childhood, I used my pen
for the pleasure of children; and now that I am travelling down
the hill I was then ascending, I would fain give some words of
consolation and cheer to my companions on the way. If the rays of
my morning have helped to germinate seeds that ripened into flowers
and fruit, I am grateful to Him, from whom all light and warmth
proceeds. And now I reverently ask His blessing on this attempt to
imitate, in my humble way, the setting rays of that great luminary,
which throws cheerful gleams into so many lonely old homes, which
kindles golden fires on trees whose foliage is falling, and lights
up the silvered heads on which it rests with a glory that reminds
one of immortal crowns.

                                                     L. MARIA CHILD.

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CONTENTS.


                                                           PAGE
  THE FRIENDS                       _L. M. Child_             1

  THE GOOD OLD GRANDMOTHER          _Anonymous_              37

  THE CONSOLATIONS OF AGE           _Zschokke_               39

  THE OLD MAN DREAMS                _O. W. Holmes_           44

  A RUSSIAN LADY                                             46

  THE OLD MAN’S SONG                _Anonymous_              51

  THE TWENTY-SEVENTH OF MARCH       _W. C. Bryant_           52

  A CHRISTMAS STORY FOR             _Charles Dickens_        53
      GRANDFATHER

  JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO              _Robert Burns_           60

  OLD FOLKS AT HOME                 _L. M. Child_            61

  EVERLASTING YOUTH                 _Edmund H. Sears_        62

  LIFE                              _Mrs. Barbauld_          68

  THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE         _L. M. Child_            69

  THE HAPPIEST TIME                 _Eliza Cook_             81

  ODE OF ANACREON                                            84

  CICERO’S ESSAY ON OLD AGE                                  85

  THE FOUNTAIN                      _W. Wordsworth_          98

  A POET’S BLESSING                 _Uhland_                101

  BERNARD PALISSY                                           102

  OLD AGE COMING                    _Elizabeth Hamilton_    123

  UNMARRIED WOMEN                   _L. M. Child_           127

  THE OLD MAID’S PRAYER             _Mrs. Tighe_            144

  GRANDFATHER’S REVERIE             _Theodore Parker_       146

  THE HOUSE IN THE MEADOW           _Louise C. Moulton_     149

  A STORY OF ST. MARK’S EVE         _Thomas Hood_           152

  WHAT THE OLD WOMAN SAID           _Anonymous_             161

  THE SPRING JOURNEY                _Heber_                 163

  MORAL HINTS                       _L. M. Child_           164

  THE BOYS                          _O. W. Holmes_          184

  ODE OF ANACREON                                           185

  MYSTERIOUSNESS OF LIFE            _Mountford_             186

  THE GRANDMOTHER’S APOLOGY         _Alfred Tennyson_       189

  THE ANCIENT MAN                   _J. P. Richter_         193

  MILTON’S HYMN OF PATIENCE         _Elizabeth L. Howell_   210

  LETTER FROM AN OLD WOMAN          _L. M. Child_           212

  BRIGHT DAYS IN WINTER             _John G. Whittier_      223

  THE CANARY BIRD                   _John Sterling_         224

  OLD BACHELORS                     _L. M. Child_           225

  TAKING IT EASY                    _G. H. Clark_           238

  OLD AUNTY                         _Anonymous_             241

  RICHARD AND KATE                  _Robert Bloomfield_     250

  LUDOVICO CORNARO                                          256

  ROBIN AND JEANNIE                 _Dora Greenwell_        271

  A GOOD OLD AGE                    _Mountford_             273

  MY PSALM                          _John G. Whittier_      276

  JOHN HENRY VON DANNECKER                                  279

  THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES     _W. Wordsworth_         290

  DR. DODDRIDGE’S DREAM                                     292

  THE OLD PSALM-TUNE                _Harriet B. Stowe_      297

  THE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY                                    300

  TO ONE WHO WISHED ME SIXTEEN      _Alice Cary_            322
      YEARS OLD

  GROWING OLD                       _Dinah Muloch_          324

  EQUINOCTIAL                       _Mrs. A.D.T. Whitney_   334

  EPITAPH ON THE UNMATED            _E. S._                 335

  A BEAUTIFUL THOUGHT               _Convers Francis_       336

  AT ANCHOR                         _Anonymous_             339

  NOVEMBER                          _H. W. Beecher_         341

  MEDITATIONS ON A BIRTHDAY EVE     _John Pierpont_         343

  THE GRANDMOTHER OF SLAVES         _H. J._                 346

  AULD LANG SYNE                    _Robert Burns_          362

  OLD FOLKS AT HOME                 _L. M. Child_           363

  OLD UNCLE TOMMY                   _M. S._                 364

  SITTING IN THE SUN                _Anonymous_             377

  AUNT KINDLY                       _Theodore Parker_       379

  CROSSING OVER                     _Uhland_                383

  A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD         _Mrs. Gaskell_          385

  TO MY WIFE                        _Anonymous_             408

  THE EVERGREEN OF OUR FEELINGS     _J. P. Richter_         410

  OUR SECRET DRAWER                 _Anonymous_             414

  THE GOLDEN WEDDING                _F. A. Bremer_          416

  THE WORN WEDDING RING             _W. C. Bennett_         424

  HINTS ABOUT HEALTH                _L. M. Child_           427

  THE INVALID’S PRAYER              _Wesley_                440

  THE OLD PASTOR AND HIS SON        _J. P. Richter_         441

  REST AT EVENING                   _Adelaide A. Procter_   454


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THE FRIENDS.

BY L. M. CHILD.

            “By some especial care
  Her temper had been framed, as if to make
  A being, who, by adding love to peace,
  Might live on earth a life of happiness.”

                        _Wordsworth._


In the interior of Maine two girls grew to womanhood in houses
so near that they could nod and smile to each other while they
were making the beds in the morning, and chat through the open
fence that separated their gardens when they went to pick currants
for the tea-table. Both were daughters of farmers; but Harriet
Brown’s father had money in the bank, while Jane White’s father
was struggling hard to pay off a mortgage. Jane was not a beauty,
but her fresh, healthy countenance was pleasant to look upon. Her
large blue eyes had a very innocent expression, and there was
always in them the suggestion of a smile, as if they sung the
first note of a merry song for the lips to follow. Harriet was the
belle of the county; with rosy cheeks, a well-shaped mouth, and
black eyes, that were very bright, without being luminous from
within. A close observer of physiognomy could easily determine
which of the girls had most of heart and soul. But they were
both favorites in the village, and the young men thought it was
a pretty sight to see them together. In fact, they were rarely
seen apart. Their leisure moments, on bright winter days, were
spent in snow-balling each other across the garden-fence; and they
kept up the sport hilariously long after their hands were numb
and red with cold. In the long evenings, they made wagers which
would soonest finish a pair of socks; and merry were the little
crowings over the vanquished party. In spring, they hunted anemones
and violets together. In autumn, they filled their aprons with
brilliant-colored leaves to decorate the mantel-piece; stopping
ever and anon to twine the prettiest specimens in each other’s
hair. They both sat in the singing-seats at meeting. Harriet’s
shrill voice was always heard above Jane’s, but it was defective
in modulation, while music flowed through the warbling voice of
her companion. They often bought dresses alike, with the agreement
that, when the sleeves were worn, the two skirts should be used
to make a new dress for the one who first needed it; and shrewd
observers remarked that Harriet usually had the benefit of such
bargains. Jane waited assiduously upon her mother, while Harriet’s
mother waited upon her. One seemed to have come into the world
to be ministered unto, and the other to minister. Harriet was
prim in company, and some called her rather proud; but Jane was
deemed imprudent, because whatever she said or did bubbled out
of her heart. Their friendship was not founded on any harmonious
accord of character; few friendships are. They were born next door
to each other, and no other girls of their own age happened to
be near neighbors. The youthful heart runs over so perpetually,
that it needs another into which to pour its ever-flowing stream.
Impelled by this necessity, they often shared each other’s sleeping
apartments, and talked late into the night. They could not have
told, the next day, what they had talked about. Their conversation
was a continuous movement of hilarious nothings, with a running
accompaniment of laughter. It was like the froth of whip-syllabub,
of which the rustic took a spoonful into his mouth, and finding it
gone without leaving a taste behind, he searched the carpet for it.
The girls, however, never looked after the silly bubbles of their
bubbling syllables. Harriet thought Jane excessively funny, and
such an appreciative audience was stimulus sufficient to keep her
friend’s tongue in motion.

“O Hatty, the moon’s up, and it’s as light as a cork!” exclaimed
Jane, springing out of bed in the summer’s night, and looking out
of the window.

“What a droll creature you are!” replied Hatty; and they laughed
more heartily than they would have done over one of Dr. Holmes’s
wittiest sayings.

When merriment subsided into a more serious mood, each gave her
opinion whether Harry Blake, the young lawyer, or Frank May, the
young store-keeper, had the handsomest eyes. Jane said, there was a
report that the young lawyer was engaged to somebody before he came
to their village; but Harriet said she didn’t believe it, because
he pressed her hand when they came home from the County Ball, and
he whispered something, too; but she didn’t know whether it would
be fair to tell of it. Then came the entreaty, “Do tell”; and she
told. And with various similar confidings, they at last fell asleep.

Thus life flowed on, like a sunny, babbling brook, with these girls
of sixteen summers. Fond as they were of recreation, they were
capable, in the New England sense of the term, and accomplished
a great deal of work. It was generally agreed that Harriet made
the best butter and Jane the best bread that the village produced.
Thrifty fathers said to their sons, that whoever obtained one of
those girls for a wife would be a lucky fellow. Harriet refused
several offers, and the rejected beaux revenged themselves by
saying, she was fishing for the lawyer, in hopes of being the wife
of a judge, or a member of Congress. There was less gossip about
Jane’s love affairs. Nobody was surprised when the banns were
published between her and Frank May. She had always maintained
that his eyes were handsomer than the lawyer’s. It was easy enough
for anybody to read her heart. Soon after Jane’s marriage with
the young store-keeper Harriet went to visit an uncle in New
York. There she attracted the attention of a prosperous merchant,
nearly as old as her father, and came home to busy herself with
preparations for a wedding. Jane expressed surprise, in view of
certain confidences with regard to the young lawyer; but Harriet
replied: “Mr. Gray is a very good sort of man, and really seems
to be very much in love with me. And you know, Jenny, it must be
a long time before Harry Blake can earn enough to support a wife
handsomely.”

A few weeks afterward, they had their parting interview. They
kissed and shed tears, and exchanged lockets with braids of hair.
Jane’s voice was choked, as she said: “O Hatty, it seems so hard
that we should be separated! I thought to be sure we should always
be neighbors.”

And Harriet wiped her eyes, and tried to answer cheerfully: “You
must come and see me, dear Jenny. It isn’t such a great way to New
York, after all.”

The next day Jane attended the wedding in her own simple bridal
dress of white muslin; and the last she saw of Harriet was the
waving of her white handkerchief from a genteel carriage, drawn
by two shining black horses. It was the first link that had
been broken in the chain of her quiet life; and the separation
of these first links startles the youthful mind with a sort of
painful surprise, such as an infant feels waking from sleep to be
frightened by a strange face bending over its cradle. She said to
her husband: “I didn’t feel at all as I always imagined I should
feel at Hatty’s wedding. It was so unexpected to have her go off
with that stranger! But I suppose she is the best judge of what is
for her own happiness.”

The void left by this separation was soon filled by new pleasures
and duties. A little boy and girl came. Then her husband was
seized with a disease of the spine, which totally unfitted him for
business. Jane had acquired considerable skill in mantua-making,
which now proved a valuable assistance in the support of her
family. The neighboring farmers said, “Young Mrs. May has a hard
row to hoe.” But her life was a mingled cup, which she had no
wish to exchange for any other. Care and fatigue were sweetened by
the tenderness and patience of her household mate, and brightened
by the gambols of children, who clung to her with confiding love.
When people expressed sympathy with her hard lot, she answered,
cheerfully: “I am happier than I was when I was a girl. It is a
happiness that I feel deeper down in my heart.” This feeling was
expressed in her face also. The innocent blue eyes became motherly
and thoughtful in their tenderness, but still a smile lay sleeping
there. Her husband said she was handsomer than when he first loved
her; and so all thought who appreciated beauty of expression above
fairness of skin.

During the first year of her residence in New York, Harriet wrote
every few weeks; but the intervals between her letters lengthened,
and the apology was the necessity of giving dinner-parties,
making calls, and attending to mantua-makers. To Jane, who was
constantly working to nurse and support her dear ones, they seemed
like letters in a foreign language, of which we can study out the
meaning, but in which it is impossible for us to think. She felt
herself more really separated from the friend of her girlhood than
she could have been by visible mountains. They were not only living
in different worlds, but the ways of each world did not interest
the other. The correspondence finally ceased altogether, and years
passed without any communication.

The circle of Jane’s duties enlarged. Her husband’s parents became
feeble in health; they needed the presence of children, and could
also assist their invalid son by receiving him into their house.
So Frank May and his wife removed to their home, in a country
village of Massachusetts. Her parents, unwilling to relinquish the
light of her presence, removed with them. There was, of course,
great increase of care, to which was added the necessity for
vigilant economy; but the energy of the young matron grew with the
demands upon it. Her husband’s mother was a little unreasonable
at times, but it was obvious that she considered her son very
fortunate in his wife; and Jane thankfully accepted her somewhat
reluctant affection. If a neighbor alluded to her numerous cares,
she replied cheerfully: “Yes, it is true that I have a good deal
on my shoulders; but somehow it never seems very heavy. The fact
is,” she added, smiling, “there’s great satisfaction in feeling
one’s self of so much importance. There are my husband, my two
children, my two fathers, and my two mothers, all telling me that
they couldn’t get along without me; and I think that’s blessing
enough for one poor woman. Nobody can tell, until they try it, what
a satisfaction there is in making old folks comfortable. They cling
so to those that take good care of them, that, I declare, I find
it does me about as much good as it did to tend upon my babies.”
Blessed woman! she carried sunshine within her, and so external
circumstances could not darken her life.

The external pressure increased as years passed on. Her husband,
her parents, her son, departed from her, one after another. Still
she smiled through her tears, and said: “God has been very merciful
to me. It was _such_ a comfort to be able to tend upon them to the
last, and to have them die blessing me!” The daughter married and
removed to Illinois. The heart of the bereaved mother yearned to
follow her; but her husband’s parents were very infirm, and she had
become necessary to their comfort. When she gave the farewell kiss
to her child, she said: “There is no one to take good care of the
old folks if I leave them. I will stay and close their eyes, and
then, if it be God’s will, I will come to you.”

Two years afterward, the old father died, but his wife survived
him several years. When the estates of both fathers were settled,
there remained for the two widowed women a small house, an acre of
land, and a thousand dollars in the bank. There they lived alone.
The rooms that had been so full of voices were silent now. Only, as
Jane moved about, “on household cares intent,” she was often heard
singing the tune her dear Frank used to sing under the apple-tree
by her window, in their old courting days:--

  “The moon was shining silver bright.
    No cloud the eye could view;
  Her lover’s step, in silent night,
    Well pleased, the damsel knew.”

Sometimes the blue eyes moistened as she sang, but, ere the tears
fell, tender memories would modulate themselves into the tune of
“Auld lang syne.” And sometimes the old mother, who sat knitting in
the sunshine, would say: “Sing that again, Jenny. How my old man
used to love to hear you sing it! Don’t you remember he used to say
you sung like a thrush?” Jenny would smile, and say, “Yes, mother,”
and sing it over again. Then, tenderly adapting herself to the old
woman’s memories, she would strike into “John Anderson, my Jo,” to
which her aged companion would listen with an expression of serene
satisfaction. It was indeed a pleasure to listen; for Jenny’s sweet
voice remained unbroken by years; its tones were as silvery as
her hair. Time, the old crow, had traversed her face and left his
footprints there; and the ploughshare of successive sorrows had cut
deep lines into the once smooth surface; but the beauty of the soul
illumined her faded countenance, as moonlight softens and glorifies
ruins. When she carefully arranged the pillows of the easy-chair,
the aged mother, ere she settled down for her afternoon’s nap,
would often look up gratefully, and say, “Your eyes are just
as good as a baby’s.” It was a pleasant sound to the dutiful
daughter’s ears, and made her forget the querulous complaints in
which her infirm companion sometimes indulged.

The time came when this duty was finished also; and Mrs. Frank
May found herself all alone in the house, whither she had carried
her sunshine thirty years before. She wrote to her daughter that,
as soon as she could sell or let her little homestead, she would
start for Illinois. She busied herself to hasten the necessary
arrangements; for her lonely heart was longing for her only child,
whose face she had not seen for seven years. One afternoon, as she
sat by the window adding up accounts, her plans for the journey
to meet her daughter gradually melted into loving reminiscences
of her childhood, till she seemed to see again the little smiling
face that had looked to her the most beautiful in all the world,
and to hear again the little pattering feet that once made sweetest
music in her ears. As she sat thus in reverie at the open window,
the setting sun brightened the broad meadows, crowned the distant
hill-tops with glory, and threw a ribbon of gold across the wall of
her humble little room. The breath of lilacs floated in, and with
it came memories of how her little children used to come in with
their arms full of spring-blossoms, filling every mug and pitcher
they could find. The current of her thoughts was interrupted by
the sound of a wagon. It stopped before her house. A stranger with
two little children! Who could it be? She opened the door. The
stranger, taking off his hat and bowing respectfully, said, “Are
you Mrs. Frank May?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied.

“Well, then,” rejoined he, “if you please, I’ll walk in, for I’ve
got some news to tell you. But first I’ll bring in the children,
for the little things have been riding all day, and are pretty
tired.”

“Certainly, sir, bring them in and let them rest, and I will give
them a cup of milk,” replied the kindly matron.

A little boy and girl were lifted from the wagon and led in. Mrs.
May made an exclamation of joyful surprise. The very vision she had
had in her mind a few minutes previous stood before her bodily! She
took the little girl in her arms and covered her face with kisses.
“Why, bless your little soul!” she exclaimed; “how much you look
like my daughter Jenny!”

“My name _ith_ Jenny,” lisped the little one.

“Why, you see, ma’am--” stammered the stranger; he paused, in an
embarrassed way, and smoothed the nap of his hat with his sleeve.
“You see, ma’am--” he resumed; then, breaking down again, he
suddenly seized the boy by the hand, led him up to her, and said,
“There, Robin! that’s your good old granny, you’ve heard so much
about.”

With a look of astonishment, Mrs. May said to him: “And where is my
daughter, sir? Surely these little children wouldn’t come so far
without their mother.”

The man again began to say, “You see, ma’am--” but his heart came
up and choked his voice with a great sob. The old mother understood
its meaning. She encircled the two children with her arms, and drew
them closely to her side. After a brief silence, she asked, in a
subdued voice, “When did she die?”

Her calmness reassured the stranger, and with a steady voice he
replied: “You see, ma’am, your daughter and her husband have been
neighbors of mine ever since they went to Illinois. There’s been
an epidemic fever raging among us, and they both died of it. The
last words your daughter said were, ‘Carry the children to my good
mother.’ I’ve been wanting to come and see my old father, who lives
about three miles from here, so I brought them along with me. It’s
sorrowful news for you, ma’am, and I meant to have sort of prepared
you for it; but somehow I lost my presence of mind, and forgot what
I was going to say. But I’m glad to see you so sustained under it,
ma’am.”

“I thank God that _these_ are left,” she replied; and she kissed
the little faces that were upturned to hers with an expression that
seemed to say they thought they should like their grandmother.

“I’m so glad you’re helped to take it so,” rejoined the stranger.
“Your daughter always told me you was a woman that went straight
ahead and did your duty, trusting the Lord to bring you through.”

“I am forgetting my duty now,” she replied. “You must be hungry and
tired. If you’ll drive to Neighbor Harrington’s barn, he will take
good care of your horse, and I will prepare your supper.”

“Thank you kindly, ma’am; but I must jog on to my old father’s, to
take supper with him.”

Some boxes containing the clothing of the children and their mother
were brought in; and, having deposited them, the stranger departed
amid thanks and benedictions.

Mrs. Harrington had seen the wagon stop at Mrs. May’s door, and
go off without the children. Being of an inquiring mind, she
straightway put on her cape-bonnet, and went to see about it. She
found her worthy neighbor pinning towels round the children’s
necks, preparatory to their supper of brown bread and molasses,
which they were in a great hurry to eat.

“Why who on earth have you got here!” exclaimed Neighbor Harrington.

“They are my daughter’s children,” replied Mrs. May. “Bless their
little souls! if I’d have known they were coming, I’d have had some
turnovers ready for them.”

“I guess you’ll find they’ll _make_ turnovers enough,” replied Mrs.
Harrington smiling. “That boy looks to me like a born rogue. But
where’s your daughter? I didn’t see any woman in the wagon.”

“The Lord has taken her to himself,” replied Mrs. May, in quivering
tones.

“You _don’t_ say so!” exclaimed Neighbor Harrington, raising both
hands. “Bless me! if I’d known that, I wouldn’t have come right in
upon you so sudden.”

They sat down and began to talk over the particulars which the
stranger had related. Meanwhile, the children, in hungry haste,
were daubing their chins and fingers with molasses. The little
four-year-old Jenny was the first to pause. Drawing a long breath,
expressive of great satisfaction, she lisped out, “O Bubby!
_larthiz_ top on bread! what _can_ be gooder?”

Robin, who was two years her senior, and felt as if he were as much
as ten, gave a great shout of laughter, and called out, “O Granny!
you don’t know how funny Sissy talks.”

Grandmother went with a wet towel to wipe their hands and faces,
and when she heard what the little Tot had said, she could not
help smiling, notwithstanding the heaviness of her heart. As for
Neighbor Harrington, she laughed outright.

“You see they are just as well satisfied as they would have been
with a dozen turnovers,” said she. “But this is a sad blow for you,
Neighbor May; coming, too, just at the time when you were taking so
much comfort in the thoughts of going to see your daughter; and it
will be a pretty heavy load for a woman of your years to bring up
these orphans.”

“O, it’s wonderful how the dispensations of Providence are softened
for us poor weak mortals,” replied Mrs. May. “Only think what a
mercy it is that I have these treasures left? Why, she looks so
much like her dear mother, that I seem to have my own little Jenny
right over again; and I can’t seem to realize that it isn’t so.
You see, Neighbor Harrington, _that_ softens the blow wonderfully.
As for bringing up the children, I have faith that the Lord will
strengthen those who trust in him.”

“That’s just like you,” rejoined Neighbor Harrington. “You always
talk in that way. You always seem to think that what happens is the
best that _could_ happen. You’re pretty much like this little one
here. If you don’t get tarts and turnovers, you smack your lips and
say, ‘Lasses top on bread! what _can_ be gooder?’”

The neighbors bade each other a smiling good-night. When Mrs.
Harrington returned home, she told her husband the mournful news,
and added, “Mrs. May don’t seem to feel it so much as I should
think she would.” Yet the good grandmother dropped many tears on
the pillow where those little orphans slept; and kneeling by their
bedside, she prayed long and fervently for support and guidance in
rearing the precious souls thus committed to her charge.

She had long been unused to children; and they did, as Neighbor
Harrington had predicted, make plenty of turnovers in the
house. Robin had remarkable gifts in that line. Endless were his
variations of mischief. Sometimes the stillness of the premises
was suddenly disturbed by a tremendous fluttering and cackling,
caused by his efforts to catch the cockerel. The next thing, there
was the cat squalling and hissing, because he was pulling her
backward by the tail. Then he was seized with a desire to explore
the pig’s sleeping apartment, and by that process let him out into
the garden, and had the capital fun of chasing him over flowers and
vegetables. Once when the pig upset little Sissy in his rounds, he
had to lie down and roll in the mud himself, with loud explosions
of laughter. Quiet little Jenny liked to make gardens by sticking
flowers in the sand, but it particularly pleased him to send them
all flying into the air, at the point of his boot. When the leaves
were gay with autumn tints, she would bring her apron full and sit
at grandmother’s feet weaving garlands for the mantel-piece; and it
was Master Robin’s delight to pull them to pieces, and toss them
hither and yon. It was wonderful how patiently the good grandmother
put up with his roguish pranks. “O Robin, dear, don’t behave so,”
she would say. “Be a good boy. Come! I want to see how fast you
grow. Take off your boots, and Jenny will take off hers, and stand
even, and then we’ll see which is the tallest.”

“O, I’m _ever_ so much taller. I’m almost a man,” responded Robin,
kicking off his boots.

Honest little Jenny stood squarely and demurely while grandmother
compared their heights. But roguish Robin raised himself as much as
possible. To hide his mirth, he darted out of doors as soon as it
was over, calling Jenny after him. Then he gave her a poke, that
toppled her half over, and said, with a chuckle, “Sissy, I cheated
grandmother. I stood tiptoe. But don’t you _tell_!”

But wild as Robin was, he dearly loved his grandmother, and she
loved him better than anything else, excepting little Jenny. When
Neighbor Harrington said, “I should think that boy would wear your
life out,” she answered, with a smile: “I don’t know what I should
do without the dear little creatures. I always liked to be called
by my Christian name, because it sounds more hearty. There’s nobody
to call me Jenny now. The little ones call me granny, and the
neighbors call me old Mrs. Frank May. But I have a _little_ Jenny,
and every time I hear her name called, it makes me feel as if I
was young again. But what I like best is to hear her tuning up her
little songs. The little darling sings like a robin.”

“Then she sings like _me_,” exclaimed her ubiquitous brother, who
had climbed up to the open window, holding on by the sill. “I can
whistle most any tune; _can’t_ I?”

“Yes, dear, you whistle like a quail,” replied his grandmother.

Satisfied with this share of praise, down he dropped, and the next
minute they saw him rushing down the road, in full chase after a
passing dog. Mrs. May laughed, as she said: “It seems as if he was
in twenty places at once. But he’s a good boy. There’s nothing
the matter with him, only he’s so full of fun that it _will_ run
over all the time. He’ll grow steadier, by and by. He brought in a
basket of chips to-day without upsetting them; and he never made
out to do that before. He’s as bright as a steel button; and if I
am only enabled to guide him right, he will make such a man as my
dear husband would have been proud to own for a grandson. I used
to think it was impossible to love anything better than I loved my
little ones; but I declare I think a grandmother takes more comfort
in her grandchildren than she did in her own children.”

“Well, you do beat all,” replied Mrs. Harrington. “You’ve had about
as much affliction as any woman I know; but you never seem to
_think_ you’ve had any trouble. I told my husband I reckoned you
_would_ admit it was a tough job to bring up that boy, at your age;
but it seems you don’t.”

“Why the fact is,” rejoined Mrs. May, “the troubles of this life
come so mixed up with blessings, that we are willing to endure one
for the sake of having the other; and then our afflictions do us so
much good, that I reckon _they_ are blessings, too.”

“I suppose they are,” replied Mrs. Harrington, “though they don’t
always seem so. But I came in to tell you that we are going to
Mount Nobscot for huckleberries to-morrow; and if you and the
children would like to go, there’s room enough in our big wagon.”

“Thank you heartily,” replied Mrs. May. “It will be a charming
frolic for the little folks. But pray don’t tell them anything
about it to-night; if you do, Robin won’t sleep a wink, or let
anybody else sleep.”

The sun rose clear, and the landscape, recently washed by copious
showers, looked clean and fresh. The children were in ecstasies at
the idea of going to the hill behind which they had so often seen
the sun go down. But so confused were their ideas of space, that,
while Jenny inquired whether Nobscot was as far off as Illinois,
Robin asked, every five minutes, whether they had got there. When
they were lifted from the wagon, they eagerly ran forward, and
Robin’s voice was soon heard shouting, “O Granny! here’s lots o’
berries!” They went to picking green, red, and black ones with all
zeal, while grandmother proceeded to fill her basket. When Mrs.
Harrington came, she said, “O, don’t stop to pick here. We shall
find them twice as thick farther up the hill.”

“I’ll make sure of these,” replied Mrs. May. “I’m of the old
woman’s mind, who said she always took her comfort in this world as
she went along, for fear it wouldn’t be here when she came back.”

“You’re a funny old soul,” rejoined Neighbor Harrington. “How young
you look to-day!”

In fact, the morning air, the pleasant drive, the joyous little
ones, and the novelty of going from home, so renovated the old
lady, that her spirits rose to the temperature of youth, her color
heightened, and her step was more elastic than usual.

When they had filled their baskets, they sat under the trees, and
opened the boxes of luncheon. The children did their full share
toward making them empty. When Robin could eat no more, he followed
Joe Harrington into a neighboring field to examine some cows that
were grazing. The women took out their knitting, and little Jenny
sat at their feet, making hills of moss, while she sang about

  A kitty with soft white fur,
  Whose only talk was a pleasant purr.

The grandmother hummed the same tune, but in tones too low to drown
the voice of her darling. Looking round on the broad panorama of
hills, meadows, and cornfields, dotted with farm-houses, her soul
was filled with the spirit of summer, and she began to sing, in
tones wonderfully clear and strong for her years,

  “Among the trees, when humming-bees
  At buds and flowers were hanging,”

when Robin scrambled up the hill, calling out, “Sing something
funny, Granny! Sing that song about _me_!” He made a motion to
scatter Jenny’s mosses with his foot; but his grandmother said,
“If you want me to sing to you, you must keep quiet.” He stretched
himself full length before her, and throwing his feet up, gazed in
her face while she sang:

      “Robin was a rovin’ boy,
      Rantin’ rovin’, rantin’ rovin’;
      Robin was a rovin’ boy,
      Rantin’ rovin’ Robin.

  “He’ll have misfortunes great and sma’
  But ay a heart aboon them a’;
  He’ll be a credit till us a’;
  We’ll a’ be proud o’ Robin.”

“That means _me_!” he said, with an exultant air; and, turning a
somerset, he rolled down the hill, from the bottom of which they
heard him whistling the tune.

Altogether, they had a very pleasant day among the trees and
bushes. It brought back very vividly to Mrs. May’s mind similar
ramblings with Hatty Brown in the fields of Maine. As they walked
slowly toward their wagon, she was looking dreamily down the long
vista of her life, at the entrance of which she seemed to see a
vision of her handsome friend Hatty pelting her with flowers in
girlish glee. The children ran on, while older members of the party
lingered to arrange the baskets. Presently Jenny came running back,
and said, “Granny, there’s a carriage down there; and a lady asked
me my name, and said I was a pretty little girl.”

“Pretty _is_ that pretty _does_,” replied the grandmother. “That
means it is pretty to be good.” Then, turning to Mrs. Harrington,
she asked, “Whose carriage is that?”

She answered, “It passed us last Sunday, when we were going to
meeting, and husband said it belonged to Mr. Jones, that New York
gentleman who bought the Simmes estate, you know. I guess that old
lady is Mrs. Gray, his wife’s mother.”

“Mrs. _who_?” exclaimed her companion, in a very excited tone.

“They say her name is Gray,” replied Mrs. Harrington; “but what
_is_ the matter with you? You’re all of a tremble.”

Without answering, Mrs. May hurried forward with a degree of
agility that surprised them all. She paused in front of an old
lady very handsomely dressed in silver-gray silk. She looked
at the thin, sharp features, the dull black eyes, and the
wrinkled forehead. It was _so_ unlike the charming vision she
had seen throwing flowers in the far-off vista of memory! She
asked herself, “_Can_ it be she?” Then, with a suppressed,
half-embarrassed eagerness, she asked, “Are you the Mrs. Gray who
used to be Hatty Brown?”

“That was formerly my name,” replied the lady, with dignified
politeness.

She threw her arms round her neck, nothing doubting, and exclaimed:
“O Hatty! dear Hatty! How glad I am to see you! I’ve been thinking
of you a deal to-day.”

The old lady received the embrace passively, and, readjusting her
tumbled cape, replied, “I think I’ve seen your face somewhere,
ma’am, but I don’t remember where.”

“What! don’t you know _me_? Your old friend, Jenny White, who
married Frank May?”

“O yes, I remember. But you’ve changed a good deal since I used to
know you. Has your health been good since I saw you, Mrs. May?”

This response chilled her friend’s heart like an east wind upon
spring flowers. In a confused way, she stammered out, “I’ve
been very well, thank you; and I hope you have enjoyed the same
blessing. But I must go and see to the children now. I thought to
be sure you’d know me. Good by.”

“Good by, ma’am,” responded the old lady in gray.

The carriage was gone when Mrs. Harrington and her party entered
the big wagon to return home. Mrs. May, having made a brief
explanation of her proceedings, became unusually silent. It was
a lovely afternoon, but she did not comment on the beauty of
the landscape, as she had done in the morning. She was kind and
pleasant, but her gayety had vanished. The thought revolved through
her mind: “Could it be my shabby gown? Hatty always thought a deal
of dress.” But the suspicion seemed to her mean, and she strove to
drive it away.

“Meeting that old acquaintance seems to make you down-hearted,”
remarked Mrs. Harrington; “and that’s something new for _you_.”

“I _was_ disappointed that she didn’t know me,” replied Mrs. May;
“but when I reflect, it seems very natural. I doubt whether I
should have known _her_, if you hadn’t told me her name. I’m glad
it didn’t happen in the morning; for it might have clouded my day a
little. I’ve had a beautiful time.”

“Whatever comes, you are always thankful it wasn’t something
worse,” rejoined Mrs. Harrington. “Little Jenny is going to be just
like you. _She_’ll never be pining after other people’s pies and
cakes. Whatever she has, she’ll call it ‘Lasses top on bread! What
_can_ be gooder?’ Won’t you, Sissy?”

“Bless the dear little soul! she’s fast asleep!” said her
grandmother. She placed the pretty little head in her lap, and
tenderly stroked back the silky curls. The slight cloud soon
floated away from her serene soul, and she began to sing. “Away
with melancholy,” and “Life let us cherish.” As the wagon rolled
toward home, people who happened to be at their doors or windows
said: “That is old Mrs. Frank May. What a clear, sweet voice she
has for a woman of her years!”

Mrs. May looked in her glass that night longer than she had done
for years. “I _am_ changed,” said she to herself. “No wonder Hatty
didn’t know me!” She took from the till of her trunk a locket
containing a braid of glossy black hair. She gazed at it awhile,
and then took off her spectacles, to wipe from them the moisture
of her tears. “And _this_ is my first meeting with Hatty since we
exchanged lockets!” murmured she. “If we had foreseen it then,
could we have believed it?”

The question whether or not it was a duty to call on Mrs. Gray
disturbed her mind considerably. Mrs. Harrington settled it for her
off-hand. “She did not ask you to come,” said she; “and if she’s
a mind to set herself up, let her take the comfort of it. Folks
say she’s a dreadful stiff, prim old body; rigid Orthodox; sure
that everybody who don’t think just as she does will go to the bad
place.”

These words were not uttered with evil intention, but their effect
was to increase the sense of separation. On the other hand,
influences were not wanting to prejudice Mrs. Gray against her
former friend, whose sudden appearance and enthusiastic proceedings
had disconcerted her precise habits. When the Sewing-Society met
at her son-in-law’s house, she happened to be seated next to an
austere woman, of whom she inquired, “What sort of person is Mrs.
Frank May?”

“I don’t know her,” was the reply. “She goes to the Unitarian
meeting, and I have no acquaintance with people of that society.
I should judge she was rather light-minded. When I’ve passed by
her house, I’ve often heard her singing songs; and I should think
psalms and hymns would be more suitable to her time of life. I rode
by there once on Sunday, when I was coming home from a funeral, and
she was singing something that sounded too lively for a psalm-tune.
Miss Crosby told me she heard her say that heathens were just as
likely to be saved as Christians.”

“O, I am sorry to hear that,” replied Mrs. Gray. “She and I were
brought up under the Rev. Mr. Peat’s preaching, and he was sound
Orthodox.”

“I didn’t know she was an acquaintance of yours,” rejoined the
austere lady, “or I wouldn’t have called her light-minded. I never
heard anything against her, only what she said about the heathen.”

Mrs. May, having revolved the subject in her straightforward
mind, came to the conclusion that Neighbor Harrington’s advice
was not in conformity with the spirit of kindness. “Since Mrs.
Gray is a stranger in town, it is my place to call first,” said
she. “I will perform my duty, and then she can do as she pleases
about returning the visit.” So she arrayed herself in the best
she had, placed the children in the care of Mrs. Harrington, and
went forth on her mission of politeness. The large mirror, the
chairs covered with green damask, and the paper touched here and
there with gold, that shimmered in the rays of the setting sun,
formed a striking contrast to her own humble home. Perhaps this
unaccustomed feeling imparted a degree of constraint to her manner
when her old friend entered the room, in ample folds of shining
gray silk, and a rich lace cap with pearl-colored ribbons. Mrs.
Gray remarked to her that she bore her age remarkably well; to
which Mrs. May replied that folks told her so, and she supposed it
was because she generally had pretty good health. It did not occur
to her to return the compliment, for it would not have been true.
Jenny was now better-looking than Hatty. Much of this difference
might be attributed to her more perfect health, but still more it
was owing to the fact that, all their lives long, one had lived
to be ministered unto, and the other to minister. The interview
was necessarily a formal one. Mrs. Gray inquired about old
acquaintances in Maine, but her visitor had been so long absent
from that part of the country that she had little or nothing to
tell, and all she had struggled through meanwhile would have been
difficult for the New York lady to realize. The remark about her
light-mindedness was constantly present in Mrs. Gray’s mind, and at
parting she thus expressed the anxiety it occasioned: “You say you
have a great deal to do, Mrs. May, and indeed you must have, with
all the care of those little children; but I hope you find time to
think about the salvation of your soul.”

Her visitor replied, with characteristic simplicity: “I don’t know
whether I do, in the sense I suppose you mean. I have thought a
great deal about what is right and what is wrong, and I have prayed
for light to see what was my duty, and for strength to perform
it. But the fact is, I have had so much to do for others, that I
haven’t had much time to think about myself, in _any_ way.” Then,
with some passing remark about the vines at the door, the old
ladies bade each other good-by.

When Mrs. Harrington was informed of the conversation, she said, in
her blunt way: “It was a great piece of impertinence in her. She’d
better take care of her own soul than trouble herself about yours.”

“I don’t think so,” replied Mrs. May. “I believe she meant it
kindly. She don’t seem to me to be stern or proud. But we’ve been
doing and thinking such very different things, for a great many
years, that she don’t know what to say to _me_, and I am just as
much puzzled how to get at _her_. I reckon all these things will
come right in another world.”

During the summer she often saw Mr. Jones’s carriage pass her
house, and many a time, when the weather was fine, she placed fresh
flowers on the mantel-piece, in a pretty vase which Hatty had given
her for a bridal present, thinking to herself that Mrs. Gray would
be likely to ride out, and might give her a call. When autumn came,
she filled the vase with grasses and bright berries, which she
gathered in her ramblings with the children. Once, the carriage
passed her as she was walking home, with a little one in either
hand, and Mrs. Gray looked out and bowed. At last a man came with a
barrel of apples and a message. The purport of it was, that she had
gone with her daughter’s family to New York for the winter; that
she intended to have called on Mrs. May, but had been poorly and
made no visits.

Winter passed rapidly. The children attended school constantly;
it was grandmother’s business to help them about their lessons,
to knit them warm socks and mittens, to mend their clothes, and
fill their little dinner-kettle with provisions. The minister, the
deacon, and the neighbors in general felt interested to help the
worthy woman along in the task she had undertaken. Many times a
week she repeated, “How my path is strewn with blessings!”

With the lilacs the New York family came back to their summer
residence. The tidings soon spread abroad that Mrs. Gray was
failing fast, and was seldom strong enough to ride out. Mrs.
May recalled to mind certain goodies, of which Hatty used to be
particularly fond in their old girlish times. The next day she
started from home with a basket nicely covered with a white damask
napkin, on the top of which lay a large bunch of Lilies of the
Valley, imbedded in one of their broad green leaves. She found Mrs.
Gray bolstered up in her easy-chair, looking quite thin and pale.
“I know you have everything you want, and better than I can bring,”
said she; “but I remembered you used to like these goodies when we
were girls, and I wanted to bring you _something_, so I brought
these.” She laid the flowers in the thin hand, and uncovered her
basket.

The invalid looked up in her face with a smile, and said, “Thank
you, Jenny; this is very kind of you.”

“God bless you for calling me Jenny!” exclaimed her warm-hearted
old friend, with a gush of tears. “There is nobody left to call me
Jenny now. The children call me Granny, and the neighbors call me
old Mrs. Frank May. O, it sounds like old times, Hatty.”

The ice gave way under the touch of that one sunbeam. Mrs. Gray
and Mrs. May vanished from their conversation, and only Hatty and
Jenny remained. For several months they met every day, and warmed
their old hearts with youthful memories. Once only, a little of the
former restraint returned for a few minutes. Mrs. Gray betrayed
what was in her mind, by saying: “I suppose, Jenny, you know I
haven’t any property. My husband failed before he died, and I am
dependent on my daughter.”

“I never inquired about your property, and I don’t care anything
about it,” replied Mrs. May, rather bruskly, and with a slight
flush on her cheeks; but, immediately subsiding into a gentler
tone, she added, “I’m very glad, Hatty, that you have a daughter
who is able to make you so comfortable.”

Thenceforth the invalid accepted her disinterested services without
question or doubt. True to her old habits of being ministered
unto, she made large demands on her friend’s time and strength,
apparently unconscious how much inconvenience it must occasion to
an old person charged with the whole care of two orphan children.
Mrs. May carefully concealed any impediments in the way, and,
by help of Mrs. Harrington, was always ready to attend upon her
old friend. She was often called upon to sing “Auld Lang Syne”;
and sometimes, when the invalid felt stronger than common, she
would join in with her feeble, cracked voice. Jenny sat looking at
Hatty’s withered face, and dim black eyes, and she often felt a
choking in her throat, while they sang together:

  “We twa hae ran about the braes,
  And pu’d the gowans fine.”

More frequently they sang the psalm-tunes they used to sing when
both sat in the singing-seats with Frank May and Harry Blake.
They seldom parted without Jenny’s reading a chapter of the New
Testament in a soft, serious tone. One day Mrs. Gray said: “I have
a confession to make, Jenny. I was a little prejudiced against you,
and thought I shouldn’t care to renew our acquaintance. Somebody
told me you was light-minded, and that you told Miss Crosby the
heathen were just as likely to be saved as Christians. But you seem
to put your trust in God, Jenny; and it is a great comfort to me to
hear you read and sing.”

“I have a confession to make, too,” replied Mrs. May. “They told me
you was a very stern and bigoted Orthodox; and you know, when we
were girls, Hatty, I never took much to folks that were too strict
to brew a Saturday, for fear the beer would work a Sunday.”

“Ah, we were giddy young things in those days,” replied her friend,
with much solemnity in her manner.

“Well, Hatty dear, I’m a sort of an old girl now,” replied Mrs.
May. “I am disposed to be merciful toward the short-comings of my
fellow-creatures, and I cannot believe our Heavenly Father will be
less so. I remember Miss Crosby talked to me about the heathen one
day, and I thought she talked hard. I don’t recollect what I said
to her; but after I arrived at years of reflection I came to some
conclusions different from the views we were brought up in. You
know my dear Frank was an invalid many years. He was always in the
house, and we read to each other, and talked over what we read.
In that way, I got the best part of the education I have after I
was married. Among other things he read to me some translations
from what the Hindoos believe in as their Bible; and some of the
writings of Rammohun Roy; and we both came to the conclusion that
some who were called heathens might be nearer to God than many
professing Christians. You know, Hatty, that Jesus walked and
talked with his disciples, and their hearts were stirred, but they
didn’t know him. Now it seems to me that the spirit of Jesus may
walk and talk with good pious Hindoos and Mahometans, and may stir
their hearts, though they don’t know him.”

“You may be right,” rejoined the invalid. “God’s ways are above
our ways. It’s a pity friends should be set against one another
on account of what they believe, or don’t believe. Pray for _me_,
Jenny, and I will pray for _you_.”

It was the latter part of October, when Mrs. May carried a garland
of bright autumn leaves to pin up opposite her friend’s bed. “It is
beautiful,” said the invalid; “but the colors are not so brilliant
as those you and I used to gather in Maine. O, how the woods glowed
there, at this season! I wish I could see them again.”

Mrs. May smiled, and answered, “Perhaps you _will_, dear.”

Her friend looked in her face, with an earnest, questioning glance;
but she only said, “Sing our old favorite tune in bygone days,
Jenny.” She seated herself by the bedside and sang:

  “The Lord my shepherd is,
    I shall be well supplied;
  Since he is mine, and I am his,
    What can I want beside?”

Perceiving that the invalid grew drowsy, she continued to hum in
a low, lulling tone. When she was fast asleep, she rose up, and,
after gazing tenderly upon her, crept softly out of the room. She
never looked in those old dim eyes again. The next morning they
told her the spirit had departed from its frail tenement.

Some clothing and a few keepsakes were transmitted to Mrs. May
soon after, in compliance with the expressed wish of her departed
friend. Among them was the locket containing a braid of her own
youthful hair. It was the very color of little Jenny’s, only the
glossy brown was a shade darker. She placed the two lockets side
by side, and wiped the moisture from her spectacles as she gazed
upon them. Then she wrapped them together, and wrote on them, with
a trembling hand, “The hair of Grandmother and her old friend
Hatty; for my darling little Jenny.”

When Neighbor Harrington came in to examine the articles that
had been sent, the old lady said to her: “There is nobody left
now to call me Jenny. But here is my precious _little_ Jenny.
_She_’ll never forsake her old granny; _will_ she, darling?” The
child snuggled fondly to her side, and stood on tiptoe to kiss the
wrinkled face, which was to her the dearest face in the whole world.

She never did desert her good old friend. She declined marrying
during Mrs. May’s lifetime, and waited upon her tenderly to the
last. Robin, who proved a bright scholar, went to the West to
teach school, with the view of earning money to buy a farm, where
grandmother should be the queen. He wrote her many loving letters,
and sent portions of his earnings to her and Sissy; but she
departed this life before his earthly paradise was made ready for
her. The last tune she sang was St. Martin’s; and the last words
she spoke were: “How many blessings I have received! Thank the Lord
for all his mercies!”




[Illustration]




THE GOOD OLD GRANDMOTHER,

WHO DIED AGED EIGHTY.


  O softly wave the silver hair
    From off that aged brow!
  That crown of glory, worn so long,
    A fitting crown is now.

  Fold reverently the weary hands,
    That toiled so long and well,
  And, while your tears of sorrow fall,
    Let sweet thanksgivings swell.

  That life-work, stretching o’er long years,
    A varied web has been;
  With silver strands by sorrow wrought,
    And sunny gleams between.

  These silver hairs stole softly on,
    Like flakes of falling snow,
  That wrap the green earth lovingly,
    When autumn breezes blow.

  Each silver hair, each wrinkle there,
    Records some good deed done;
  Some flower she cast along the way,
    Some spark from love’s bright sun.

  How bright she always made her home!
    It seemed as if the floor
  Was always flecked with spots of sun,
    And barred with brightness o’er.

  The very falling of her step
    Made music as she went;
  A loving song was on her lip,
    The song of full content.

  And now, in later years, her word
    Has been a blessed thing
  In many a home, where glad she saw
    Her children’s children spring.

  Her widowed life has happy been,
    With brightness born of heaven;
  So pearl and gold in drapery fold
    The sunset couch at even.

  O gently fold the weary hands
    That toiled so long and well;
  The spirit rose to angel bands,
    When off earth’s mantle fell.

  She’s safe within her Father’s house,
    Where many mansions be;
  O pray that thus such rest may come,
    Dear heart, to thee and me!

                        ANONYMOUS.




[Illustration]




THE CONSOLATIONS OF AGE.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF ZSCHOKKE’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


From all I have narrated concerning my good and evil days, some may
infer that I have been on the whole a favorite of fortune; that
I may very well be philosophic, and maintain a rosy good-humor,
since, with the exception of a few self-torments of the fancy, I
have seldom or never experienced a misfortune. But indeed I _have_
met with what men usually style great misfortunes, or evils, though
I never so named them. Like every mortal, I have had my share
of what is called human misery. The weight of a sudden load has
sometimes, for a moment, staggered me and pressed me down, as is
the case with others. But, with renewed buoyancy of spirit, I have
soon risen again, and borne the burden allotted to me, without
discontent. Nay, more than this, though some may shake their heads
incredulously, it is a fact that worldly suffering has often not
been disagreeable to me. It has weaned me from placing my trust
in transitory things. It has shown me the degree of strength and
self-reliance I could retain, even at that period of life when the
passions reign. I am fully convinced that there is no evil in the
world but sin. Nothing but consciousness of guilt spins a dark
thread, which reaches through the web of all our days, even unto
the grave. God is not the author of calamity, but only man, by his
weakness, his over-estimate of pompous vanities, and the selfish
nurture of his appetites. He weeps like a child because he cannot
have his own way, and even at seventy years of age is not yet a
man. He bewails himself, because God does not mind him. Yet every
outward misfortune is in truth as worthy a gift of God as outward
success.

In common with others, I have met with ingratitude from many; but
it did not disquiet me; because what I had done for them was not
done for thanks. Friends have deceived me, but it did not make me
angry with them; for I saw that I had only deceived myself with
regard to them. I have endured misapprehension and persecution with
composure, being aware of the unavoidable diversity of opinions,
and of the passions thereby excited. I have borne the crosses
of poverty without a murmur; for experience had taught me that
outward poverty often brings inward wealth. I have lost a moderate
property, which I had acquired by toil, but such losses did not
imbitter me for a single day; they only taught me to work and
spare. I have been the happy father of happy children. Twelve sons
and one daughter I have counted; and I have had to sit, with a
bleeding heart, at the death-bed of four of those sons. As they
drew their last breath, I felt that divine sorrow which transforms
the inner man. My spirit rested on the Father of the universe,
and it was well with me. My dead ones were not parted from me.
Those who remained behind drew the more closely to one another,
while eagerly looking toward those who had gone before them to
other mansions of the Great Father. It was our custom to think of
the deceased as still living in the midst of us. We were wont to
talk about their little adventures, their amusing sallies, and the
noble traits of their characters. Everything noteworthy concerning
_them_, as well as what related to the _living_ members of the
family, was recorded by the children in a chronicle they kept in
the form of a newspaper, and was thus preserved from oblivion.
Death is something festal, great, like all the manifestations of
God here below. The death of my children hallowed me; it lifted
me more and more out of the shows of earth, into the divine. It
purified my thoughts and feelings. I wept, as a child of the dust
_must_ do; but in spirit I was calm and cheerful, because I knew to
whom I and mine belonged.

At the beginning of old age, I could indeed call myself a happy
man. On my seventieth birthday, I felt as if I were standing
on a mountain height, at whose foot the ocean of eternity was
audibly rushing; while behind me, life, with its deserts and
flower-gardens, its sunny days and its stormy days, spread out
green, wild, and beautiful. Formerly, when I read or heard of the
joylessness of age, I was filled with sadness; but I now wondered
that it presented so much that was agreeable. The more the world
diminished and grew dark, the less I felt the loss of it; for the
dawn of the next world grew ever clearer and clearer.

Thus rejoicing in God, and with him, I advance into the winter
of life, beyond which no spring awaits me on this planet. The
twilight of my existence on earth is shining round me; but the
world floats therein in a rosy light, more beautiful than the
dawn of life. Others may look back with homesickness to the lost
paradise of childhood. That paradise was never mine. I wandered
about, an orphan, unloved, and forsaken of all but God. I thank him
for this allotment; for it taught me to build my paradise within.
The solemn evening is at hand, and it is welcome. I repent not
that I have lived. Others, in their autumn, can survey and count
up their collected harvests. This I cannot. I have scattered seed,
but whither the wind has carried it I know not. The good-will
alone was mine. God’s hand decided concerning the success of my
labor. Many an unproductive seed I have sown; but I do not, on
that account, complain either of myself or of Heaven. Fortune has
lavished on me no golden treasures; but contented with what my
industry has acquired,
            and my economy has preserved, I enjoy that
                noble independence at which I have
                always aimed; and out of the little
                  I possess I have been sometimes
                     able to afford assistance
                        to others who were
                          less fortunate.

[Illustration]

    AN healthy old fellow, that is not a fool, is the happiest
    creature living. It is at that time of life only men enjoy
    their faculties with pleasure and satisfaction. It is then
    we have nothing to _manage_, as the phrase is; we speak the
    downright truth; and whether the rest of the world will _give_
    us the privilege, or not, we have so little to ask of them,
    that we can _take_ it.--STEELE.




[Illustration]




THE OLD MAN DREAMS.

BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.


  O for one hour of youthful joy!
    Give me back my twentieth spring!
  I’d rather laugh a bright-haired boy,
    Than reign a gray-beard king!

  Off with the wrinkled spoils of age!
    Away with learning’s crown!
  Tear out life’s wisdom-written page,
    And dash its trophies down!

  One moment let my life-blood stream
    From boyhood’s fount of fame!
  Give me one giddy, reeling dream
    Of life all love and flame!

  My listening angel heard the prayer,
    And, calmly smiling, said,
  “If I but touch thy silvered hair,
    Thy hasty wish hath sped.

  “But is there nothing in thy track
    To bid thee fondly stay,
  While the swift seasons hurry back
    To find the wished-for day?”

  Ah, truest soul of womankind!
    Without _thee_, what were life?
  One bliss I cannot leave behind:
    I’ll take--my--precious--wife!

  The angel took a sapphire pen
    And wrote in rainbow dew,
  “The man would be a boy again,
    And be a husband too!”

  “And is there nothing yet unsaid,
    Before the change appears?
  Remember, all their gifts have fled
    With those dissolving years!”

  Why, yes; for memory would recall
    My fond paternal joys;
  I could not bear to leave them all:
    I’ll take--my--girl--and--boys!

  The smiling angel dropped his pen,--
    “Why, this will never do;
  The man would be a boy again,
    And be a father too!”

  And so I laughed,--my laughter woke
    The household with its noise,--
  And wrote my dream, when morning broke,
    To please the gray-haired boys.




[Illustration]




A RUSSIAN LADY

OF THE OLD SCHOOL.[A]

    [A] From Life in the Interior of Russia.


Give me your hand, dear reader, and accompany me on a visit to one
of my neighbors. The day is fine, the blue sky of the month of
May is a beautiful object; the smooth young leaves of the white
hazel-trees are as brilliant as if they had been newly washed.
The large, smooth fields are covered with that fine young grass
which the sheep love so much to crop; on the right and left, on
the long slopes of the hills, the rye-grass is waving, and over
its smooth swell glide the shadows of the little flying clouds. In
the distance, the woods are resplendent with the brilliant light;
the ponds glitter, and the villages are bathed in yellow rays.
Innumerable larks fly about, singing and beating their wings in
unison; making their appearance first in one spot, then in another,
they rise lightly from the fields, and again are as quickly lost
in them. The rooks station themselves on the highway, looking up
fixedly at the sun; they move aside to let you pass, or foolishly
fly forward ten paces on the edge of the road. On the slopes beyond
a ravine a laborer is at his plough, and a piebald foal, with its
miserable little tail, dishevelled mane, and long, frail legs, runs
after its mother, and we may just hear its plaintive neigh. We
enter a birch wood, and a fresh and strong odor fills the air; we
reach the gate of an enclosure; the coachman descends, and, while
the horses snort, and the right wheeler plays with his tail, and
rubs his jaw against the pole, he opens the creaking gate, and,
reseating himself, we roll on.

A village now presents itself, and, after passing five or six
farm-yards, we turn to the right, and descending rapidly, are soon
driving along an embankment. Beyond a pond of moderate extent, and
behind apple-trees and clustering lilacs, an old wooden house is
now visible, painted red, and possessing two chimneys. We drive
along a paling on the left, and pass through a large open carriage
entrance, saluted by the husky barkings of three old worn-out dogs.
My groom gallantly salutes an old housekeeper, who is peeping out
of the pantry through a foot and a half window. We draw up before
the door near the veranda of a gloomy little house. It is the abode
of Tatiana Borissovna. But there she is herself, saluting us from
the window. “Good morning, good morning, Madame.”

Tatiana Borissovna is a woman of about fifty; she has large
bluish-gray eyes, slightly prominent, a nose inclined to flatness,
cherry cheeks, and a double chin. Her face beams with sweetness
and goodness. She once had a husband, but so long ago that no one
has any recollection of it. She scarcely ever leaves her little
property, keeps up but a slight connection with her neighbors,
seldom invites them to her house, and likes none but young people.
Her father was a poor gentleman, and she consequently received
a very imperfect education; in other words, she does not speak
French, and has never seen even Moscow, not to speak of St.
Petersburg. But, spite of these little defects, she manages all
her affairs in her country life so simply and wisely; she has so
large a way of thinking, of feeling, and comprehending things;
she is so little accessible to the thousand weaknesses which are
generally found in our good provincial ladies,--poor things,--that,
in truth, one cannot help admiring her. Only consider that she
lives all the year round within the precincts of her own village
and estate, quite isolated, and that she remains a stranger to all
the tittle-tattle of the locality; does not rail, slander, take
offence, or choke and fret with curiosity; that envy, jealousy,
aversion, and restlessness of body and mind, are all unknown to
her; only consider this, and grant that she is a marvel. Every day
after eleven o’clock she is dressed in a gown of iron-gray taffeta,
and a white cap with long pure ribbons; she likes to eat, and make
others do the same; but she eats moderately, and lets others follow
her example. Preserves, fruits, pickled meats, are all intrusted to
the housekeeper. With what, then, does she occupy herself, and how
does she fill up her day? She reads, perhaps, you will say. No, she
does not read; and, to speak the truth, people must think of others
than Tatiana Borissovna when they print a book. In winter, if she
is alone, our Tatiana Borissovna sits near a window, and quietly
knits a stocking; in summer she goes and comes in her garden,
where she plants and waters flowers, picks the caterpillars from
her shrubs, puts props under her bushes, and sprinkles sand over
the garden paths; then she can amuse herself for hours with the
feathered race in her court-yard, with her kittens and pigeons, all
of which she feeds herself. She occupies herself very little with
housekeeping. If, unexpectedly, any good young neighbor chances
to look in, she is then as happy as possible; she establishes
herself upon her divan, regales her visitor with tea, hears all
he has to say, sometimes gives him little friendly pats on the
cheek, laughs heartily at his sallies, and speaks little herself.
Are you annoyed, or the victim of some misfortune? She consoles
you with the most sympathizing words, and opens up various means
of relief, all full of good sense. How many there are, who, after
confiding to her their family secrets and their private griefs,
have found themselves so relieved by unburdening their minds, that
they have bathed her hands with their tears. In general, she sits
right before her guest, her head leaning lightly on her left hand,
looking in his face with so much kindly interest, smiling with
such friendly good-nature, that one can scarcely keep himself from
saying, “Ah! what an excellent woman you are, Tatiana Borissovna.
Come, I will conceal from
          you nothing that weighs upon my heart.” In her
             delightful, nice little rooms, one is so
                pleased with himself and everybody,
                   that he is unwilling to leave
                       them; in this little
                        heaven, the weather
                           is always at
                            “set fair.”

[Illustration]

The happiness of life may be greatly increased by small courtesies
in which there is no parade, whose voice is too still to tease,
and which manifest themselves by tender and affectionate looks,
and little kind acts of attention, giving others the preference
in every little enjoyment at the table, in the field, walking,
sitting, or standing.--STERNE.




[Illustration]




THE OLD MAN’S SONG.

TO HIS WIFE.


  Oh, don’t be sorrowful, darling!
    Now don’t be sorrowful, pray!
  For, taking the year together, my dear,
    There isn’t more night than day.

  ’Tis rainy weather, my darling;
    Time’s waves they heavily run;
  But, taking the year together, my dear,
    There isn’t more cloud than sun.

  We are old folks now, my darling;
    Our heads they are growing gray;
  But, taking the year all round, my dear,
    You will always find the May.

  We’ve _had_ our May, my darling,
    And our roses, long ago;
  And the time of the year is coming, my dear,
    For the long dark nights and the snow.

  But God is God, my darling,
    Of night, as well as of day;
  And we feel and know that we can go
    Wherever He leads the way.

  Ay, God of the night, my darling;
    Of the night of death so grim.
  The gate that from life leads out, good wife,
    Is the gate that leads to Him.

                        ANONYMOUS.




THE TWENTY-SEVENTH OF MARCH.

THE BIRTHDAY OF ----.


  Now be the hours that yet remain to thee
  Stormy or sunny, sympathy and love,
  That inextinguishably dwell within
  Thy heart, shall give a beauty and a light
  To the most desolate moments, like the glow
  Of a bright fireside in the wildest day;
  And kindly words and offices of good
  Shall wait upon thy steps, as thou goest on,
  Where God shall lead thee, till thou reach the gates
  Of a more genial season, and thy path
  Be lost to human eye among the bowers
  And living fountains of a brighter land.

                        WM. C. BRYANT.




[Illustration]




A CHRISTMAS STORY FOR GRANDFATHER.

BY CHARLES DICKENS.


Once upon a time, a good many years ago, there was a traveller, and
he set out upon a journey. It was a magic journey, and was to seem
very long when he began it, and very short when he got half-way
through.

He travelled along a rather dark path for some little time, without
meeting anything, until at last he came to a beautiful child. So he
said to the child, “What do you here?” And the child said, “I am
always at play. Come and play with me!”

So, he played with that child the whole day long, and they were
very merry. The sky was so blue, the sun was so bright, the water
was so sparkling, the leaves were so green, the flowers were
so lovely, and they heard such singing-birds, and saw so many
butterflies, that everything was beautiful. This was in fine
weather. When it rained, they loved to watch the falling drops
and to smell the fresh scents. When it blew, it was delightful to
listen to the wind, and fancy what it said, as it came rushing from
its home--where was that, they wondered!--whistling and howling,
and driving the clouds before it, bending the trees, rumbling in
the chimneys, shaking the house, and making the sea roar in fury.
But when it snowed, that was the best of all; for they liked
nothing so well as to look up at the white flakes falling fast and
thick, like down from the breasts of millions of white birds; and
to see how smooth and deep the drift was, and to listen to the hush
upon the paths and roads.

They had plenty of the finest toys in the world, and the most
astonishing picture-books, all about scimitars and slippers
and turbans, and dwarfs and giants, and genii and fairies, and
blue-beards and bean-stalks, and riches, and caverns and forests,
and Valentines and Orsons: and all new and all true.

But one day, of a sudden, the traveller lost the child. He called
to him over and over again, but got no answer. So, he went upon
his road, and went on for a little while without meeting anything,
until at last he came to a handsome boy. So, he said to the boy,
“What do you here?” And the boy said, “I am always learning. Come
and learn with me.”

So he learned with that boy about Jupiter and Juno, and the Greeks
and the Romans, and I don’t know what, and learned more than I
could tell,--or he either; for he soon forgot a great deal of it.
But they were not always learning; they had the merriest games
that ever were played. They rowed upon the river in summer, and
skated on the ice in winter; they were active afoot, and active on
horseback; at cricket, and all games at ball; at prisoners’ base,
hare and hounds, follow my leader, and more sports than I can think
of; nobody could beat them. They had holidays, too, and Twelfth
cakes, and parties where they danced all night till midnight, and
real theatres, where they saw palaces of real gold and silver rise
out of the real earth, and saw all the wonders of the world at
once. As to friends, they had such dear friends, and so many of
them, that I want the time to reckon them up. They were all young,
like the handsome boy, and were never to be strange to one another
all their lives through.

Still, one day, in the midst of all these pleasures, the traveller
lost the boy, as he had lost the child, and, after calling on him
in vain, went on upon his journey. So he went on for a little while
without seeing anything, until at last he came to a young man. So,
he said to the young man, “What do you here?” And the young man
said, “I am always in love. Come and love with me.”

So, he went away with that young man, and presently they came
to one of the prettiest girls that ever was seen,--just like
Fanny in the corner there,--and she had eyes like Fanny, and
hair like Fanny, and dimples like Fanny’s, and she laughed and
colored just as Fanny does while I am talking about her. So,
the young man fell in love directly,--just as Somebody I won’t
mention, the first time he came here, did with Fanny. Well! He was
teased sometimes,--just as Somebody used to be by Fanny; and they
quarrelled sometimes,--just as Somebody and Fanny used to quarrel;
and they made it up, and sat in the dark, and wrote letters every
day, and never were happy asunder, and were always looking out for
one another, and pretending not to, and were engaged at Christmas
time, and sat close to one another by the fire, and were going to
be married very soon,--all exactly like Somebody I won’t mention
and Fanny!

But the traveller lost them one day, as he had lost the rest of his
friends, and, after calling to them to come back, which they never
did, went on upon his journey. So, he went on for a little while
without seeing anything, until at last he came to a middle-aged
gentleman. So, he said to the gentleman, “What are you doing here?”
And his answer was, “I am always busy. Come and be busy with me!”

So, then he began to be very busy with that gentleman, and they
went on through the wood together. The whole journey was through
a wood, only it had been open and green at first, like a wood in
spring; and now began to be thick and dark, like a wood in summer;
some of the little trees that had come out earliest were even
turning brown. The gentleman was not alone, but had a lady of about
the same age with him, who was his wife: and they had children, who
were with them too. So, they all went on together through the wood,
cutting down the trees, and making a path through the branches and
the fallen leaves, and carrying burdens, and working hard.

Sometimes they came to a long green avenue that opened into deeper
woods. Then they would hear a very little distant voice crying,
“Father, father, I am another child! Stop for me!” And presently
they would see a very little figure, growing larger as it came
along, running to join them. When it came up, they all crowded
round it, and kissed and welcomed it; and then they all went on
together.

Sometimes they came to several avenues at once; and then they all
stood still, and one of the children said, “Father, I am going to
sea”; and another said, “Father, I am going to India”; and another,
“Father, I am going to seek my fortune where I can”; and another,
“Father, I am going to heaven!” So, with many tears at parting,
they went, solitary, down those avenues, each child upon its way;
and the child who went to heaven, rose into the golden air and
vanished.

Whenever these partings happened, the traveller looked at the
gentleman, and saw him glance up at the sky above the trees, where
the day was beginning to decline, and the sunset to come on. He
saw, too, that his hair was turning gray. But they never could rest
long, for they had their journey to perform, and it was necessary
for them to be always busy.

At last, there had been so many partings that there were no
children left, and only the traveller, the gentleman, and the lady
went upon their way in company. And now the wood was yellow; and
now brown; and the leaves, even of the forest-trees, began to fall.

So they came to an avenue that was darker than the rest, and were
pressing forward on their journey without looking down it, when the
lady stopped.

“My husband,” said the lady, “I am called.”

They listened, and they heard a voice a long way down the avenue
say, “Mother, mother!”

It was the voice of the first child who had said, “I am going to
heaven!” and the father said, “I pray not yet. The sunset is very
near. I pray not yet.”

But the voice cried, “Mother, mother!” without minding him, though
his hair was now quite white, and tears were on his face.

Then, the mother, who was already drawn into the shade of the dark
avenue, and moving away with her arms still around his neck, kissed
him and said, “My dearest, I am summoned, and I go!” And she was
gone. And the traveller and he were left alone together.

And they went on and on together, until they came to very near the
end of the wood; so near, that they could see the sunset shining
red before them through the trees.

Yet, once more, while he broke his way among the branches, the
traveller lost his friend. He called and called, but there was no
reply, and when he passed out of the wood and saw the peaceful
sun going down upon a wide purple prospect, he came to an old man
sitting upon a fallen tree. So, he said to the old man, “What do
you here?” And the old man said, with a calm smile, “I am always
remembering. Come and remember with me.”

So, the traveller sat down by the side of the old man, face to
face with the serene sunset; and all his friends came softly back
and stood around him. The beautiful child, the handsome boy, the
young man in love, the father, mother, and children: every one of
them was there, and he had lost nothing. So, he loved them all, and
was kind and forbearing with them all, and was always pleased to
watch them all, and they all honored and loved him. And I think the
traveller must be yourself, dear grandfather, because it is what
you do to us, and what we do to you.




[Illustration]




JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.

BY ROBERT BURNS.


  John Anderson, my jo, John,
    When we were first acquent,
  Your locks were like the raven,
    Your bonnie brow was brent[B];
  But now your head’s turned bald, John,
    Your locks are like the snow;
  But blessings on your frosty pow,
    John Anderson, my jo.

  John Anderson, my jo, John,
    We clamb the hill thegither;
  And mony a canty[C] day, John,
    We’ve had wi’ ane anither:
  Now we maun totter down, John,
    But hand in hand we’ll go,
  And sleep thegither at the foot,
    John Anderson, my jo.

    [B] Smooth.

    [C] Merry.

    When thoughtful people sing these admirable verses, they are
    apt to long to hear of something _beyond_ the foot of the hill.
    This want has been extremely well supplied by Mr. Charles
    Gould, of New York, in the following verse:--

  John Anderson, my jo, John,
    When we have slept thegither
  The sleep that a’ maun sleep, John,
    We’ll wake wi’ ane anither:
  And in that better warld, John,
    Nae sorrow shall we know;
  Nor fear we e’er shall part again,
    John Anderson, my jo.




OLD FOLKS AT HOME.


  More pleasant seem their own surroundings,
      Though quaint and old,
  Than newer homes, with their aboundings
      Of marble, silk, and gold.
  For ’tis the heart inspires home-feelings,
      In hut or hall,
  Where memory, with its fond revealings,
      Sheds a tender light o’er all.

  They love the wonted call to meeting,
      By their old bell;
  They love the old familiar greeting
      From friends who know them well.
  Their homesick hearts are always yearning,
      When they’re away;
  And ever is their memory turning
      To scenes where they used to stay.

                        L. M. C.




[Illustration]




EVERLASTING YOUTH.

BY REV. EDMUND H. SEARS.[D]

    [D] From Foregleams of Immortality.


Old age, in some of its aspects, is a most interesting and solemn
mystery, though to the outward eye it is merely the gradual waning
and extinction of existence. All the faculties fold themselves up
to a long, last sleep. First, the senses begin to close, and lock
in the soul from the outward world. The hearing is generally the
first to fail, shutting off the mind from the tones of affection
and of melody. The sight fails next; and the pictures of beauty,
on the canvas spread round us morning and evening, become blurred.
The doors and windows are shut toward the street. The invasion
keeps on steadily toward the seat of life. The images of the memory
lose their outline, run together, and at last melt away into
darkness. Now and then, by a special effort, rents are made in
the clouds, and we see a vista opening through the green glades
of other years. But the edges of the cloud soon close again. It
settles down more densely than ever, and all the past is blotted
out. Then the reason fails, and the truths it had elaborated
flicker and are extinguished. Only the affections remain. Happy
for us, if these also have not become soured or chilled. It is our
belief, however, that these _may_ be preserved in their primitive
freshness and glow; and that in the old age where the work of
regeneration is consummating, the affections are always preserved
bright and sweet, like roses of Eden, occupying a charmed spot in
the midst of snows. In old age, men generally seem to have grown
either better or worse. The reason is, that the internal life is
then more revealed, and its spontaneous workings are more fully
manifested. The intellectual powers are no longer vigilant to
control the expression of the internal feelings, and so the heart
is generally laid open. What we call the moroseness and peevishness
of age is none other than the real disposition, no longer hedged
in, and kept in decency, by the intellect, but coming forth without
disguise. So again, that beautiful simplicity and infantile
meekness, sometimes apparent in old age, beaming forth, like the
dawn of the coming heaven, through all the relics of natural decay,
are the spontaneous effusions of sanctified affections. There
is, therefore, a good and a bad sense, in which we speak of the
second childhood. Childhood is the state of spontaneity. In the
first childhood, before the intellect is formed, the heart answers
truly to all impressions from without; as the Æolian harp answers
to every touch of the breeze. In the second childhood, after the
intellect is broken down, the same phenomenon comes round again;
and in it you read the history of all the intervening years. What
those years have done for the regeneration of the soul will appear,
now that its inmost state is translucent, no longer concealed by
the expediencies learned of intellectual prudence. When the second
childhood is true and genial, the work of regeneration approaches
its consummation; and the light of heaven is reflected from silver
hairs, as if one stood nearer to Paradise, and caught reflections
of the resurrection glories.

But alas! is this _all_ that is left of us, amid the memorials
of natural decay? Senses, memory, reason, all blotted out,
in succession, and instinctive affection left _alone_ to its
spontaneous workings, like a solitary flower breathing its
fragrance upon snows? And how do we know but _this_, too, will
close up its leaves, and fall before the touch of the invader? Then
the last remnant of the man is no more. Or, if otherwise, must so
many souls enter upon their immortality denuded of everything but
the heart’s inmost and ruling love?

How specious and deceptive are natural appearances! What _seemed_
to the outward eye the waning of existence, and the loss of
faculties, is only locking them up successively, in order to keep
them more secure. Old age, rather than death, answers strictly to
the analogies of _sleep_. It is the gradual folding in and closing
up of all the voluntary powers, after they have become worn and
tired, that they may wake again refreshed and renovated for the
higher work that awaits them. The psychological evidence is pretty
full and decisive, that old age is sleep, but not decay. The reason
lives, though its eye is temporarily closed; and some future day it
will give a more perfect and pliant form to the affections. Memory
remains, though its functions are suspended for a while. All its
chambers may be exhumed hereafter, and their frescoes, like those
of the buried temples at Meroë, will be found preserved in unfading
colors. The _whole_ record of our life is laid up _within_ us; and
only the overlayings of the physical man prevent the record from
being always visible. The years leave their _débris_ successively
upon the spiritual nature, till it seems buried and lost beneath
the layers. On the old man’s memory every period seems to have
obliterated a former one; but the life which he has lived can no
more be lost to him, or destroyed, than the rock-strata can be
destroyed by being buried under layers of sand. In those hours
when the bondage of the senses is less firm, and the life within
has freer motion; or, in those hours of self-revelation, which are
sometimes experienced under a clearer and more pervading light
from above,--the past withdraws its veil; and we see, rank beyond
rank, as along the rows of an expanding amphitheatre, the images
of successive years, called out as by some wand of enchantment.
There are abundant facts, which go to prove that the decline and
forgetfulness of years are nothing more than the hardening of the
mere _envelopment_ of the man, shutting in the inmost life, which
merely waits the hour to break away from its bondage.

De Quincey says: “I am assured that there is no such thing as
_forgetting_ possible to the mind. A thousand circumstances may
and will interpose a veil between our present consciousness and
the secret inscriptions of the mind; but alike, whether veiled or
unveiled, the inscription remains forever; just as the stars _seem_
to withdraw from the common light of day; whereas, we all know that
it is the light which is drawn over them, as a veil, and that they
are waiting to be revealed, when the obscuring daylight shall have
withdrawn.”

The resurrection is the exact inverse of natural decay; and the
former is preparing ere the latter has ended. The affections, being
the inmost life, are the nucleus of the whole man. They are the
creative and organific centre, whence are formed the reason and
the memory, and thence their embodiment in the more outward form
of members and organs. The whole interior mechanism is complete in
the chrysalis, ere the wings, spotted with light, are fluttering
in the zephyrs of morning. St. Paul, who, in this connection,
is speaking specially of the resurrection of the just, presents
three distinct points of contrast between the natural body and the
spiritual. One is weak, the other is strong. One is corruptible,
the other is incorruptible. One is without honor, the other is
glorious. By saying that one is natural, and the other spiritual,
he certainly implies that one is better adapted than the other
to do the functions of spirit, and more perfectly to organize
and manifest its powers. How clearly conceivable then is it that
when man becomes free of the coverings of mere natural decay, he
comes into complete possession of all that he is, and all that he
has ever lived; that leaf after leaf in our whole book of life is
opened backward, and all its words and letters come out in more
vivid colors!

In the other life, therefore, appears the wonderful paradox that
the oldest people are the youngest. To grow in age is to come into
            everlasting youth. To become old in years is
                to put on the freshness of perpetual
                prime. We drop from us the _débris_
                    of the past, we breathe the
                     ether of immortality, and
                         our cheeks mantle
                            with eternal
                               bloom.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]




LIFE.

    The following lines were by Mrs. Anna Letitia Barbauld, an
    English writer of great merit, extensively known as the author
    of excellent Hymns, and Early Lessons for Children. She was
    born in 1743, and lived to be nearly eighty-two years old. She
    employed the latter part of her life in editing a series of the
    best English novels and essays, accompanied with biographical
    sketches of the authors; and compositions in prose and verse
    continued to be her favorite occupation to the last.


  Life! I know not what thou art,
  But know that thou and I must part;
  And when, or how, or where we met,
  I own to me’s a secret yet.

  Life! we have been long together,
  Through pleasant and through cloudy weather.
  ’Tis hard to part when friends are dear;
  Perhaps ’twill cost a sigh, a tear.
  Then steal away; give little warning;
    Choose thine own time;
  Say not Good Night; but in some brighter clime
    Bid me Good Morning!




[Illustration]




THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE.

BY L. MARIA CHILD.


There was a traveller who set out upon a new road, not knowing
whither it would lead him, nor whence he came, for he had been
conveyed thither blindfold, and the bandage had been removed in
his sleep. When he woke up he found himself among all sorts of
pretty novelties, and he ran about hither and thither, eagerly
asking, “What is this?” “What is that?” His activity was untiring.
He tried to catch everything he saw, and hold it fast in his hand.
But humming-birds whirred in his ears, and as soon as he tried to
grasp them they soared up out of his reach, and left him gazing
at their burnished throats glistening in the sunshine. Daintily
painted butterflies poised themselves on such lowly flowers, that
he thought he had but to stoop and take them; but they also floated
away as soon as he approached. He walked through stately groves,
where the sunshine was waltzing with leaf-shadows, and he tried to
pick up the airy little dancers. “They won’t let me catch ’em!” he
exclaimed, petulantly. But on he hurried in pursuit of a squirrel,
which ran nimbly away from him up into a tree, and there he sat on
the high boughs, flourishing his pretty tail in the air. And so the
traveller went along the wondrous road, always trying for something
he couldn’t catch, not knowing that the pleasure was in the pursuit.

As he went on, the path widened and grew more attractive. Birds
of radiant colors flitted about, and filled the air with charming
variations of melody. Trees threw down showers of blossoms as
he passed, and beneath his feet was a carpet of emerald-colored
velvet, embroidered with a profusion of golden stars. Better than
all, troops of handsome young men and lovely maidens joined him,
all put blindfolded into the road, and travelling they knew not
whither. And now they all set out upon a race after something
higher up than squirrels or butterflies could go. “Look there!
Look there! See what is before us!” they exclaimed. And lo!
they all saw, away beyond, on hills of fleecy cloud, the most
beautiful castles! The walls were of pearl, and rainbow pennons
waved from the gold-pointed turrets. “We will take possession of
those beautiful castles! That is where we are going to live!” they
shouted to each other; and on they ran in pursuit of the rainbows.
But they often paused in the chase, to frolic together. They
laughed, and sang merry songs, and pelted each other with flowers,
and danced within a ring of roses. It was a beautiful sight to see
their silky ringlets tossed about by the breeze, and shining in
the sunlight. But the game they liked best was looking into each
other’s eyes. They said they could see a blind boy there, with a
bow and arrow; and always they were playing bo-peep with that blind
boy, who wasn’t so blind as he seemed; for whenever he aimed his
arrow at one of them, he was almost sure to hit. But they said the
arrow was wreathed with flowers, and carried honey on its point;
and there was nothing they liked quite so well as being shot at by
the blind boy.

Sometimes their sport was interrupted by some stern-looking
traveller, who said to them, in solemn tones, “Why do you make such
fools of yourselves? Do you know whither this road leads?” Then
they looked at each other bewildered, and said they did not. “I
have been on this road much longer than you have,” he replied; “and
I think it is my duty to turn back sometimes and warn those who
are coming after me. I tell you this road, where you go dancing so
carelessly, abounds with pitfalls, generally concealed by flowers;
and it ends in an awful, deep, dark hole. You are all running, like
crazy fools, after rainbow castles in the air. You will never
come up with them. They will vanish and leave nothing but a great
black cloud. But what you have most to fear is a cruel giant, who
is sure to meet you somewhere on the road. Nobody ever knows where;
for he is invisible. Whatever he touches with his dart turns first
to marble and then to ashes. You ought to be thinking of _him_ and
his dreadful arrow, instead of the foolish archer that you call
the blind boy. Instead of chattering about roses and rainbows, you
ought to be thinking of the awful black pit at the end of the road.”

His words chilled the young men and maidens, like wind from a
cavern. They looked at each other thoughtfully, and said, “Why does
he try to spoil our sport with stories of pitfalls and invisible
giants? We don’t know where the pitfalls are; and if we go poking
on the ground for them, how can we see the sunshine and the birds?”
Some of the more merry began to laugh at the solemn traveller, and
soon they were all dancing again, or hurrying after the rainbow
castles. They threw roses at each other by the way; and often the
little blind archer was in the heart of the roses, and played them
mischievous tricks. They laughed merrily, and said to each other,
“This is a beautiful road. It is a pity old Howlit don’t know how
to enjoy it.”

But as our traveller passed on his way, he found that the words of
the lugubrious prophet were sometimes verified. Now and then some
of his companions danced into pitfalls covered with flowers. He
himself slipped several times, but recovered his balance, and said
it would teach him to walk more carefully. Others were bruised and
faint in consequence of falls, and made no effort to rise up. In
the kindness of his heart, he would not leave them thus; but always
he tried to cheer them, saying, “Up, and try again, my brother! You
won’t make the same mistake again.” Cheerful and courageous as he
was, however, he saw the rainbow castles gradually fading from his
vision; but they did not leave a great black cloud, as the solemn
traveller had foretold; they melted into mild and steady sunlight.
The young men and maidens, who had frolicked with him, went off in
pairs, some into one bypath, some into another. Hand in hand with
our traveller went a gentle companion, named Mary, in whose eyes
he had long been playing at bo-peep with the blind boy. When they
talked of this, they said they could still see him in each other’s
eye-mirrors, but now he had put his arrows into the quiver, and was
stringing pearls. Mary brought little children to her companion,
and they were more charming than all the playthings of their former
time. They gazed fondly into the eyes of the little strangers, and
said, “We see angels in these azure depths, and they are lovelier
than the blind boy ever was.” They played no more with roses now,
but gathered ripe fruits, glowing like red and purple jewels, and
planted grain which grew golden in the sunshine. Companions with
whom they had parted by the way occasionally came into their path
again, as they journeyed on. Their moods were various, according to
their experiences. Some still talked joyfully of the ever-varying
beauty of the road. Others sighed deeply, and said they had found
nothing to console them for withered roses, and rainbows vanished.
Sometimes, when inquiries were made about former acquaintances,
the answer was that the invisible giant had touched them, and they
had changed to marble. Then a shadow seemed to darken the pleasant
road, and they spoke to each other in low tones. Some of those who
sighed over withered roses, told of frightful things done by this
invisible giant, and of horrid places whither they had heard he
conveyed his victims. To children who were chasing butterflies,
and to young men and maidens who were twining rose-wreaths, they
said, “You ought not to be wasting your time with such frivolous
pastimes; you ought to be thinking of the awful invisible one, who
is near us when we least think of it.” They spoke in lugubrious
tones, as the solemn traveller had aforetime spoken to them. But
our traveller, who was cheerful of heart, said: “It is not kind to
throw a shadow across their sunshine. Let them enjoy themselves.”
And his Mary asked whether HE who made the beautiful road had
wasted time when HE _made_ the roses and the butterflies? And _why_
had HE made them, if they were not to be enjoyed?

But clouds sometimes came over this sunshine of their souls. One
of the little cherub boys whom Mary had brought to her companion
received the invisible touch, and became as marble. Then a shadow
fell across their path, and went with them as they walked. They
pressed each other’s hands in silence, but the thought was ever
in their hearts, “Whom will he touch next?” The little cherub was
not _in_ the marble form; he was still with them, though they knew
it not. Gradually their pain was softened, and they found comfort
in remembering his winning ways. Mary said to her companion: “As
we have travelled along this mysterious road, the scenery has
been continually changing, even as we have changed. But one form
of beauty has melted into another, so gently, so imperceptibly,
that we have been unconscious of the change, until it had passed.
Where all is so full of blessing, dearest, it cannot be that this
invisible touch is an exception.” The traveller sighed, and merely
answered, “It is a great mystery”; but her words fell on his heart
like summer dew on thirsty flowers. They thought of the cherub
boy, who had disappeared from their vision, and the tears dropped
slowly; but as they fell, a ray of light from heaven kissed them
and illumined them with rainbows. They clasped each other’s hands
more closely, and travelled on. Sometimes they smiled at each
other, as they looked on their remaining little ones, running
hither and thither chasing the bright butterflies. And Mary, who
was filled with gentle wisdom, said, “The butterfly was once a
crawling worm; but when it became stiff and cold, there emerged
from it this wingéd creature, clothed with beauty.” He pressed her
hand tenderly; for again her soothing words fell upon his heart
like dew on thirsty flowers.

Thus lovingly they passed on together, and many a blessing followed
them; for whenever a traveller came along who was burdened and
weary, they cheered him with hopeful words and helped to carry
his load; and ever as they did so a softer light shone upon
the landscape and bathed all things with a luminous glory. And
still the scene was changing, ever changing. The glowing fruit
had disappeared, and the golden grain was gathered. But now the
forest-trees were all aglow, and looked like great pyramids of
gorgeous flowers. The fallen foliage of the pines formed a soft
carpet under their feet, ornamented with the shaded brown of cones
and acorns, and sprinkled with gold-tinted leaves from the trees.
As they looked on the mellowed beauty of the scenery, Mary said:
“The Being who fashioned us, and created this marvellous road for
us to travel in, must be wondrously wise and loving. How gradually
and gently all things grow, and pass through magical changes. When
we had had enough of chasing butterflies, the roses came to bind
us together in fragrant wreaths. When the roses withered, the
grain-fields waved beautifully in the wind, and purple and yellow
grapes hung from the vines, like great clusters of jewels. And now,
when fruit and grain are gathered, the forests are gorgeous in the
sunlight, like immense beds of tulips. A friendly ‘Good morning’
to something new, mingles ever with the ‘Good night, beloved,’
to something that is passing away. Surely, dearest, this road,
so full of magical transformations, _must_ lead us to something
more beautiful than itself.” The traveller uncovered his head,
raised his eyes reverently toward heaven, and said: “It is a great
mystery. O Father, give us faith!”

Before the glowing tints departed from the trees, Mary’s cheek grew
pale, and the light of her eyes began to fade. Then the traveller
shuddered and shivered; for a great shadow came between him and
the sunshine; he felt the approach of the invisible. More and
more closely he pressed the beloved companion, to warm her with
his heart. But her mild eyes closed, and the graceful form became
as marble. No more could he look into those serene depths, where
he had first seen the blind boy shooting his arrows, afterward
stringing pearls, and then as an angel twining amaranthine crowns.
In the anguish of his desolation, he groaned aloud, and exclaimed:
“O thou Dread Destroyer! take me, too! I cannot live alone! I
cannot!” A gentle voice whispered, “Thou art not alone, dearest.
I am still with thee!” but in the tumult of his grief he heard it
not. The children Mary had given him twined their soft arms about
his neck, and said: “Do not leave us alone! We cannot find our way,
without thee to guide us.” For their sakes, he stifled his groans,
and knelt down and prayed, “O Father, give me strength and faith!”

Patiently he travelled on, leading the children. By degrees they
joined themselves to companions, and went off in pairs into new
paths, as he and his Mary had done. The scenery around him grew
more dreary. The black branches of the trees stood in gloomy relief
against a cold gray sky. The beautiful fields of grain ripening
in the sunshine had changed to dry stubble fluttering mournfully
in the wind. But Nature, loath to part with Beauty, still wore a
few red berries, as a necklace among her rags, and trimmed her
scanty garments with evergreen. But the wonderful transformations
had not ceased. The fluttering brown rags suddenly changed to
the softest ermine robe, flashing with diamonds, and surmounted
by a resplendent silver crown. The magical change reminded our
traveller that his lost companion had said, “Surely a road so full
of beautiful changes must lead to something more beautiful than
itself.” Again he knelt in reverence, and said, “All things around
me are miraculous. O Father, give me faith!”

The road descended into a deep valley, ever more narrow and dark.
The nights grew longer. The ground was rugged and frozen, and the
rough places hurt the pilgrim’s stiff and weary feet. But when he
was joined by pilgrims more exhausted than himself, he spoke to
them in words of good cheer, and tried to help them over the rough
places. The sunshine was no longer warm and golden, but its silvery
light was still beautiful, and through the leafless boughs of the
trees the moon and the stars looked down serenely on him. The
children whom he had guided sometimes came and sang sweetly to him;
and sometimes, when he was listening in the stillness, he seemed to
hear mysterious echoes within himself, as if from a musical chime
of bells on the other side of a river.

The shudderings and shiverings he had felt in presence of the cold
shadow became more frequent; and he said to himself, “The Dread
Destroyer is approaching more and more near.” With trembling hands
he uncovered his snow-white head, and looking upward, he said,
“It is a fearful mystery. O Father, give me faith!” Praying thus,
he sank on the cold ground, and sleepiness came over him. He felt
something gently raising him, and slowly opening his eyes, he said,
“Who art thou?” The stranger answered, “I am that Dread Destroyer,
whose shadow always made thee shudder.”

“Thou!” exclaimed the tired pilgrim, in tones of joyful surprise;
“why _thou_ art an angel!” “Yes, I am an angel,” he replied; “and
none but I can lead thee to thy loved ones. Thy Heavenly Father has
sent me to take thee home.” Gratefully the weary one sank into the
arms of the giant he had so much dreaded. “All things are ordered
in love,” he said. “Thy touch is friendly, and thy voice like
music.”

They passed a narrow bridge over a dark river. On the other side
was a flowery arch, bearing the motto, “The Gate of Life.” Within
it stood Mary and her cherub-boy, shining in transfigured light.
The child stretched out his hands for an embrace, and Mary’s
welcoming smile was more beautiful than it had ever been in the
happy old time of roses and rainbows. “This is only one more of the
magical transformations, my beloved,” she said. “It is as I told
thee. The beautiful, mysterious road leads to something far more
beautiful than itself. Come and see!” With tender joy he kissed her
and the angel child. There was a sound of harps and voices above
him, singing, “The shadow has departed!” And a cheerful response
came from well-remembered voices he had left behind him on the
road: “We are coming! We are coming!” Through all the chambers
of his soul went ringing the triumphant chorus, “The shadow has
departed!” with the cheerful response, “We are coming! We are
coming!”




[Illustration]




THE HAPPIEST TIME.

BY ELIZA COOK.


  An old man sat in his chimney-seat,
  As the morning sunbeam crept to his feet;
  And he watched the Spring light as it came
  With wider ray on his window frame.
  He looked right on to the Eastern sky,
  But his breath grew long in a trembling sigh,
  And those who heard it wondered much
  What Spirit hand made him feel its touch.

  For the old man was not one of the fair
  And sensitive plants in earth’s parterre;
  His heart was among the senseless things,
  That rarely are fanned by the honey-bee’s wings;
  It bore no film of delicate pride,
  No dew of emotion gathered inside;
  O, that old man’s heart was of hardy kind,
  That seemeth to heed not the sun or the wind.

  He had lived in the world as millions live,
  Ever more ready to take than give;
  He had worked and wedded, and murmured and blamed,
  And just paid to the fraction what honesty claimed;
  He had driven his bargains and counted his gold,
  Till upwards of threescore years were told;
  And his keen blue eye held nothing to show
  That feeling had ever been busy below.

  The old man sighed again, and hid
  His keen blue eye beneath its lid;
  And his wrinkled forehead, bending down,
  Was knitting itself in a painful frown.
  “I’ve been looking back,” the old man said,
  “On every spot where my path has laid,
  Over every year my brain can trace,
  To find the happiest time and place.”

  “And where and when,” cried one by his side,
  “Have you found the brightest wave in your tide?
  Come tell me freely, and let me learn,
  How the spark was struck that yet can burn.
  Was it when you stood in stalwart strength,
  With the blood of youth, and felt that at length
  Your stout right arm could win its bread?”
  The old man quietly shook his head.

  “Then it must have been when love had come,
  With a faithful bride to glad your home;
  Or when the first-born cooed and smiled,
  And your bosom cradled its own sweet child;
  Or was it when that first-born joy,
  Grew up to your hope,--a brave, strong boy,--
  And promised to fill the world in your stead?”
  The old man quietly shook his head.

  “Say, was it then when fortune brought
  The round sum you had frugally sought?
  Was the year the happiest that beheld
  The vision of poverty all dispelled?
  Or was it when you still had more,
  And found you could boast a goodly store
  With labor finished and plenty spread?”
  The old man quietly shook his head.

  “Ah, no! ah, no! it was longer ago,”
  The old man muttered,--sadly and low!
  “It was when I took my lonely way
  To the lonely woods in the month of May.
  When the Spring light fell as it falleth now,
  With the bloom on the sod and the leaf on the bough;
  When I tossed up my cap at the nest in the tree;
  O, that was the happiest time for me.

  “When I used to leap and laugh and shout,
  Though I never knew what my joy was about;
  And something seemed to warm my breast,
  As I sat on a mossy bank to rest.
  That was the time; when I used to roll
  On the blue-bells that covered the upland knoll,
  And I never could tell why the thought should be,
  But I fancied the flowers talked to me.

  “Well I remember climbing to reach
  A squirrel brood rocked on the top of a beech;
  Well I remember the lilies so sweet,
  That I toiled with back to the city street;
  Yes, _that_ was the time,--the happiest time,--
  When I went to the woods in their May-day prime.”
  And the old man breathed with a longer sigh,
  And the lid fell closer over his eye.

  O, who would have thought this hard old man
  Had room in his heart for such rainbow span?
  Who would have deemed that wild copse flowers
  Were tenderly haunting his latest hours?
  But what did the old man’s spirit tell,
  In confessing it loved the woods so well?
  What do we learn from the old man’s sigh,
  But that _Nature and Poetry cannot die_?




ODE OF ANACREON.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK.


  The women tell me, every day,
  That all my bloom has passed away.
  “Behold!” the lively lasses cry,
  “Behold this mirror with a sigh!
  Old wintry Time has shed his snows,
  And bald and bare your forehead shows.”
  I will not either think or care
  Whether old Time has thinned my hair;
  But this I know and this I feel,
  As years advancing on me steal,
  And ever bring the end more near,
  The joys of life become more dear;
  And had I but one hour to live,
  That hour to cheerfulness I’d give.




[Illustration]




CICERO’S ESSAY ON OLD AGE.

    The following extracts are from a discourse “De Senectute,”
    by Cicero, the world-renowned Roman orator, who was born one
    hundred and six years before Christ. He is one among many
    pleasant proofs that God never leaves himself without a witness
    in the hearts of men, in any age or country. Cicero says:
    “I have represented these reflections as delivered by the
    venerable Cato; but in delivering _his_ sentiments, I desire to
    be understood as fully declaring _my own_.”


Those who have no internal resources of happiness will find
themselves uneasy in every stage of human life; but to him who is
accustomed to derive happiness from within himself, no state will
appear as a real evil into which he is conducted by the common and
regular course of Nature; and this is peculiarly the case with
respect to old age. I follow Nature, as the surest guide, and
resign myself with implicit obedience to her sacred ordinances.
After having wisely distributed peculiar and proper enjoyments
to all the preceding periods of life, it cannot be supposed that
she would neglect the last, and leave it destitute of suitable
advantages. After a certain point of maturity is attained, marks of
decay must necessarily appear; but to this unavoidable condition
of his present being every wise and good man will submit with
contented and cheerful acquiescence.

Nothing can be more void of foundation than the assertion that old
age necessarily disqualifies a man for taking part in the great
affairs of the world. If an old man cannot perform in business a
part which requires the bodily strength and energy of more vigorous
years, he can act in a nobler and more important character.
Momentous affairs of state are not conducted by corporeal strength
and activity; they require cool deliberation, prudent counsel, and
authoritative influence; qualifications which are strengthened and
improved by increase of years. Few among mankind arrive at old
age; and this suggests a reason why the affairs of the world are
not better conducted; for age brings experience, discretion, and
judgment, without which no well-formed government could have been
established, or can be maintained. Appius Claudius was not only old
but blind, when he remonstrated in the Senate, with so much force
and spirit, against concluding a peace with Pyrrhus. The celebrated
General Quintus Maximus led our troops to battle in his old age,
with as much spirit as if he had been in the prime and vigor of
life. It was by his advice and eloquence, when he was extremely
old, that the Cincian law concerning donatives was enacted. And
it was not merely in the conspicuous paths of the world that this
excellent man was truly great. He appeared still greater in the
private and domestic scenes of life. There was a dignity in his
deportment, tempered with singular politeness and affability; and
time wrought no alteration in his amiable qualities. How pleasing
and instructive was his conversation! How profound his knowledge of
antiquity and the laws! His memory was so retentive, that there was
no event of any note, connected with our public affairs, with which
he was not well acquainted. I eagerly embraced every opportunity
to enjoy his society, feeling that after his death I should never
again meet with so wise and improving a companion.

But it is not necessary to be a hero or a statesman, in order to
lead an easy and agreeable old age. That season of life may prove
equally serene and pleasant to him who has passed his days in
the retired paths of learning. It is urged that old age impairs
the memory. It may have that effect on those in whom memory was
originally infirm, or who have not preserved its native vigor
by exercising it properly. But the faculties of the mind will
preserve their power in old age, unless they are suffered to
become languid for want of due cultivation. Caius Gallus employed
himself to the very last moments of his long life in measuring the
distances of the heavenly orbs, and determining the dimensions of
this our earth. How often has the sun risen on his astronomical
calculations! How frequently has night overtaken him in the same
elevated studies! With what delight did he amuse himself in
predicting to us, long before they happened, the several lunar and
solar eclipses! Other ingenious applications of the mind there
are, though of a lighter nature, which may greatly contribute to
enliven and amuse the decline of life. Thus Nœvius, in composing
his poem on the Carthaginian war, and Plautus in writing his two
last comedies, filled up the leisure of their latter days with
wonderful complacency and satisfaction. I can affirm the same of
our dramatic poet Livius, whom I remember to have seen in his old
age; and let me not forget Marcus Cethegus, justly styled the soul
of eloquence, whom I likewise saw in his old age exercising even
his oratorical talents with uncommon force and vivacity. All these
old men I saw pursuing their respective studies with the utmost
ardor and alacrity. Solon, in one of his poems, written when he was
advanced in years, glories that he learned something every day he
lived. Plato occupied himself with philosophical studies, till they
were interrupted by death at eighty-one years of age. Isocrates
composed his famous discourse when he was ninety-four years old,
and he lived five years afterward. Sophocles continued to write
tragedies when he was extremely old. Gray hair proved no obstacle
to the philosophic pursuits of Pythagoras, Zeno, Cleanthes, or
the venerable Diogenes. These eminent persons persevered in their
studies with undiminished earnestness to the last moment of their
extended lives. Leontinus Gorgias, who lived to be one hundred and
seven years old, pursued his studies with unremitting assiduity
to the last. When asked if he did not wish to rid himself of the
burden of such prolonged years, he replied, “I find no reason to
complain of old age.”

The statement that age impairs our strength is not without
foundation. But, after all, imbecility of body is more frequently
caused by youthful irregularities than by the natural and
unavoidable consequences of long life. By temperance and exercise,
a man may secure to his old age no inconsiderable degree of his
former spirit and activity. The venerable Lucius Metellus preserved
such a florid old age to his last moments, as to have no reason to
lament the depredations of time. If it must be acknowledged that
time inevitably undermines physical strength, it is equally true
that great bodily vigor is not required in the decline of life. A
moderate degree of force is sufficient for all rational purposes.
I no more regret the absence of youthful vigor, than when young I
lamented because I was not endowed with the strength of a bull or
an elephant. Old age has, at least, sufficient strength remaining
to train the rising generation, and instruct them in the duties
to which they may hereafter be called; and certainly there cannot
be a more important or a more honorable occupation. There is
satisfaction in communicating every kind of useful knowledge; and
it must render a man happy to employ the faculties of his mind to
so noble and beneficial a purpose, how much soever time may have
impaired his bodily powers. Men of good sense, in the evening of
life, are generally fond of associating with the younger part of
the world, and, when they discover amiable qualities in them, they
find it an alleviation of their infirmities to gain their affection
and esteem; and well-inclined young men think themselves equally
happy to be guided into the paths of knowledge and virtue by the
instructions of experienced elders. I love to see the fire of youth
somewhat tempered by the sobriety of age, and it is also pleasant
to see the gravity of age enlivened by the vivacity of youth.
Whoever combines these two qualities in his character will never
exhibit traces of senility in his mind, though his body may bear
the marks of years.

As for the natural and necessary inconveniences attendant upon
length of years, we ought to counteract their progress by constant
and resolute opposition. The infirmities of age should be resisted
like the approaches of disease. To this end we should use regular
and moderate exercise, and merely eat and drink as much as is
necessary to repair our strength, without oppressing the organs of
digestion. And the intellectual faculties, as well as the physical,
should be carefully assisted. Mind and body thrive equally by
suitable exercise of their powers; with this difference, however,
that bodily exertion ends in fatigue, whereas the mind is never
wearied by its activity.

Another charge against old age is that it deprives us of sensual
gratifications. Happy effect, indeed, to be delivered from those
snares which allure youth into some of the worst vices! “Reason,”
said Archytas, “is the noblest gift which God or Nature has
bestowed on men. Now nothing is so great an enemy to that divine
endowment as the pleasures of sense; for neither temperance,
nor any of the more exalted virtues, can find a place in that
breast which is under the dominion of voluptuous passions.
Imagine to yourself a man in the actual enjoyment of the highest
gratifications mere animal nature is capable of receiving; there
can be no doubt that during his continuance in that state it
would be utterly impossible for him to exert any one power of his
rational faculties.” The inference I draw from this is, that if
the principles of reason and virtue have not proved sufficient to
inspire us with proper contempt for mere sensual pleasures, we
have cause to feel grateful to old age for at least weaning us
from appetites it would ill become us to gratify; for voluptuous
passions are utter enemies to all the nobler faculties of the
soul; they hold no communion with the manly virtues; and they
cast a mist before the eye of reason. The little relish which old
age leaves us for enjoyments merely sensual, instead of being
a disparagement to that period of life, considerably enhances
its value. If age renders us incapable of taking an equal share
in the flowing cups and luxurious dishes of wealthy tables, it
thereby secures us from painful indigestion, restless nights, and
disordered reason.

But though his years will guard an old man from excess, they by
no means exclude him from enjoying convivial gratifications in
a moderate degree. I always took singular satisfaction in the
anniversaries of those little societies called Confraternities. But
the gratification I received from their entertainments arose much
less from the pleasures of the palate than from the opportunities
they afforded for enjoying the company and conversation of friends.
I derive so much pleasure from hours devoted to cheerful discourse,
that I love to prolong my meals, not only when the company is
composed of men of my own years, few of whom indeed are now
remaining, but also when it chiefly consists of young persons. And
I acknowledge my obligations to old age for having increased my
passion for the pleasures of conversation, while it has abated it
for those which depend solely on the palate; though I do not find
myself disqualified for that species of gratification, also.

The advantages of age are inestimable, if we consider it as
delivering us from the tyranny of lust and ambition, from angry
and contentious passions, from inordinate and irrational desires;
in a word, as teaching us to retire within ourselves, and look
for happiness in our own souls. If to these moral benefits, which
naturally result from length of days, be added the sweet food of
the mind, gathered in the fields of science, I know of no season of
life that is passed more agreeably than the learned leisure of a
virtuous old age. Can the luxuries of the table, or the amusements
of the theatre, supply their votaries with enjoyments worthy to be
compared with the calm delights of intellectual employments? And,
in minds rightly formed and properly cultivated, these exalted
delights never fail to improve and gather strength with years.

From the pleasures which attend a studious old age, let us turn to
those derived from rural occupations, of which I am a warm admirer.
Pleasures of this class are perfectly consistent with every degree
of advanced years, as they approach more nearly than any others
to those of a purely philosophical kind. They are derived from
observing the nature and properties of our earth, which yields
ready obedience to the cultivator’s industry, and returns, with
interest, whatever he places in her charge. But the profit
arising from this fertility is by no means the most desirable
circumstance of the farmer’s labors. I am principally delighted
with observing the powers of Nature, and tracing her processes in
vegetable productions. How wonderful it is that each species is
endowed with power to continue itself; and that minute seeds should
develop so amazingly into large trunks and branches! The orchard,
the vegetable garden, and the parterre diversify the pleasures of
farming; not to mention the feeding of cattle and the rearing of
bees. Among my friends and neighbors in the country are several men
far advanced in life, who employ themselves with so much activity
and industry in agricultural business, that nothing important is
carried on without their supervision. And these rural veterans
do not confine their energies to those sorts of crops which are
sown and reaped in one year. They occupy themselves in branches
of husbandry from which they know they cannot live to derive any
advantage. If asked why they thus expend their labor, they might
well reply, “We do it in obedience to the immortal gods. By their
bountiful providence we received these fields from our ancestors,
and it is their will that we should transmit them to posterity with
improvements.” In my opinion there is no happier occupation than
agriculture; not only on account of its great utility to mankind,
but also as the source of peculiar pleasures. I might expatiate
on the beauties of verdant groves and meadows, on the charming
landscape of olive-trees and vineyards; but to say all in one word,
there cannot be a more pleasing, or a more profitable scene than
that of a well-cultivated farm. And where else can a man in the
last stages of life more easily find warm sunshine, or a good fire
in winter, or the pleasure of cooling shades and refreshing streams
in summer?

It is often argued that old age must necessarily be a state of much
anxiety and disquietude, on account of the near approach of death.
That the hour of dissolution cannot be far distant from an aged
man is undoubtedly true. But every event that is agreeable to the
course of nature ought to be regarded as a real good; and surely
nothing can be more natural than for the old to die. It is true
that youth also is exposed to dissolution; but it is a dissolution
obviously contrary to Nature’s intentions, and in opposition to her
strongest efforts. Fruit, before it is ripe, cannot be separated
from the stalk without some degree of force; but when it is
perfectly mature, it drops of itself: so the disunion of the soul
and body is effected in the young by violence, but in the old it
takes place by mere fulness and completion of years. This ripeness
for death I perceive in myself with much satisfaction; and I look
forward to my dissolution as to a secure haven, where I shall at
length find a happy repose from the fatigues of a long voyage.

With regard to the consequences of our final dissolution, I will
venture to say that the nearer death approaches the more clearly do
I seem to discern its real nature. When I consider the faculties
with which the human mind is endowed, its amazing celerity, its
wonderful power in recollecting past events, and its sagacity in
discerning the future, together with its numberless discoveries in
arts and sciences, I feel a conscious conviction that this active,
comprehensive principle cannot possibly be of a mortal nature.
And as this unceasing activity of the soul derives its energy
from its own intrinsic and essential powers, without receiving it
from any foreign or external impulse, it necessarily follows that
its activity must continue forever. I am induced to embrace this
opinion, not only as agreeable to the best deductions of reason,
but also in deference to the authority of the noblest and most
distinguished philosophers.

I am well convinced that my dear departed friends are so far from
having ceased to live, that the state they now enjoy can alone with
propriety be called life. I feel myself transported with impatience
to rejoin those whose characters I have greatly respected and
whose persons I have loved. Nor is this earnest desire confined
alone to those excellent persons with whom I have been connected.
I ardently wish also to visit those celebrated worthies of whom I
have heard or read much. To this glorious assembly I am speedily
advancing; and I would not be turned back on my journey, even on
the assured condition that my youth should be again restored. The
sincere truth is, if some divinity would confer on me a new grant
of life, I would reject the offer without the least hesitation. I
have wellnigh finished the race, and have no disposition to return
to the starting-point. I do not mean to imitate those philosophers
who represent the condition of human nature as a subject of
just lamentation. The satisfactions of this life are many; but
there comes a time when we have had a sufficient measure of its
enjoyments, and may well depart contented with our share of the
feast. I am far from regretting that this life was bestowed on me;
and I have the satisfaction of thinking that
        I have employed it in such a manner as not to have
          lived in vain. In short, I consider this world
            as a place which Nature never intended for
               my permanent abode; and I look on my
                  departure from it, not as being
                  driven from my habitation, but
                     simply as leaving an inn.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]




THE FOUNTAIN.

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.


  We talked with open heart, and tongue
    Affectionate and true,
  A pair of friends, though I was young,
    And Matthew seventy-two.

  A village schoolmaster was he,
    With hair of glittering gray;
  As blithe a man as you could see
    On a spring holiday.

  And on that morning, through the grass
    And by the steaming rills,
  We travelled merrily, to pass
    A day among the hills.

  We lay beneath a spreading oak,
    Beside a mossy seat;
  And from the turf a fountain broke,
    And gurgled at our feet.

  “Now, Matthew,” said I, “let us match
    This water’s pleasant tune
  With some old Border-Song, or Catch,
    That suits a summer’s noon.

  “Or of the church-clock and the chimes
    Sing here beneath the shade,
  That half-mad thing of witty rhymes
    Which you last April made.”

  In silence Matthew lay, and eyed
    The spring beneath the tree;
  And thus the dear old man replied,
    The gray-haired man of glee:

  “Down to the vale this water steers;
    How merrily it goes!
  ’Twill murmur on a thousand years,
    And flow as now it flows.

  “And here, on this delightful day,
    I cannot choose but think
  How oft, a vigorous man, I lay
    Beside this fountain’s brink.

  “My eyes are dim with childish tears,
    My heart is idly stirred,
  For the same sound is in my ears
    Which in those days I heard.

  “Thus fares it still in our decay;
    And yet the wiser mind
  Mourns less for what age takes away,
    Than what it leaves behind.

  “The blackbird in the summer trees,
    The lark upon the hill,
  Let loose their carols when they please,
    Are quiet when they will.

  “With Nature never do _they_ wage
    A foolish strife; they see
  A happy youth, and their old age
    Is beautiful and free.

  “But _we_ are pressed by heavy laws;
    And often, glad no more,
  We wear a face of joy, because
    We have been glad of yore.

  “If there is one who need bemoan
    His kindred laid in earth,
  The household hearts that were his own,
    It is the man of mirth.

  “My days, my friend, are almost gone;
    My life has been approved,
  And many love me; but by none
    Am I _enough_ beloved.”

  “Now both himself and me he wrongs,
    The man who thus complains!
  I live and sing my idle songs
    Upon these happy plains;

  “And, Matthew, for thy children dead,
    I’ll be a son to thee!”
  At this, he grasped my hand, and said,
    “Alas! that cannot be!”

  We rose up from the fountain-side;
    And down the smooth descent
  Of the green sheep-track did we glide,
    And through the wood we went.

  And ere we came to Leonard’s Rock,
    He sang those witty rhymes
  About the crazy old church-clock,
    And the bewildered chimes.




A POET’S BLESSING.

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND.


  As I wandered the fields along,
  Listening to the lark’s sweet song,
  I saw an old man working there,
  A laborer with hoary hair.

  “Blessings upon this field!” I said;
  “Fruitful by faithful labor made.
  And blessings on thy wrinkled hand,
  Thus scattering seed along the land!”

  He answered me, with earnest face,
  “A poet’s blessing’s out of place;
  Likely enough that Heaven, in scorn,
  Will send us flowers instead of corn.”

  “Nay, friend,” said I, “my tuneful powers
  Wake not to life too many flowers;
  Only enough to grace the land,
  And fill thy little grandson’s hand.”




[Illustration]




BERNARD PALISSY[E]

    [E] These facts are gleaned from Morley’s Life of Palissy the
        Potter.

  “Call him not old, whose visionary brain
  Holds o’er the past its undivided reign.
  For him in vain the envious seasons roll,
  Who bears eternal summer in his _soul_.
  If yet the minstrel’s song, the poet’s lay,
  Spring with her birds, or children with their play,
  Or maiden’s smile, or heavenly dream of Art,
  Stir the few life-drops creeping round his heart,--
  Turn to the record where his years are told,--
  Count his gray hairs,--_they_ cannot make him old!”


Bernard Palissy was born in one of the southwestern districts of
France, in 1509; more than three hundred and fifty years ago, and
more than a century before our forefathers landed on Plymouth
Rock. The art of making colored glass, and of painting on glass,
had been for centuries in great requisition, for the windows
of castles and cathedrals. It was considered an occupation so
honorable, that poor nobles sometimes resorted to it without
losing caste; though the prejudices concerning rank were at that
time very strong. The manufacture was generally carried on in the
depths of forests, partly for the convenience of gathering fuel
for the furnaces, and partly to avoid the danger of fire in towns.
Around these manufactories the workmen erected their cabins, and
night and day the red flames of the furnaces lighted up trees
and shrubbery with a lurid glow. It is supposed that Bernard was
born and reared in one of these hamlets, secluded from the world.
The immense forests furnished a vast amount of chestnuts, which
constituted the principal food of the peasantry. Constant labor
in the open air, combined with this extreme simplicity of diet,
formed healthy, vigorous men, free-hearted, simple, and brave.
Whether Bernard’s father, who is supposed to have been a modeller
of glass, was a decayed gentleman, or simply a peasant, is not
known. Bernard, by some means, learned to read and write, which
was not an ordinary accomplishment at that period. He also had a
great talent for drawing, which he improved, either by practice or
instruction. In other respects his education was simply that of
the peasantry around him. In his own account of his early days he
says, “I had no other books than heaven and earth, which are open
to all.” These volumes, however, he studied with lively interest
and the closest observation. He took notice of the growth of plants
and the habits of animals. He soon began to paint on paper the
likenesses of birds, lizards, and trees. As his skill increased,
he made portraits of his mother and the neighbors, and landscapes
containing the houses they lived in. The preparation of colors
for glass early awakened an interest in chemical combinations;
but there were then no books on the subject, and he could only
increase his stock of knowledge by repeated experiments. His
skill in drawing enabled him to produce a variety of new patterns
for glass-work, and this, combined with his knowledge of colors,
rendered his services much more important than those of a common
workman. But the once profitable business was now in its decline.
People began to find out that the exclusion of sunshine was
unwholesome, and that the obstruction of light rendered their
dwellings gloomy. Moreover, windows in those days, being opened on
hinges, were much more exposed to be shattered by storms. To repair
stained or painted glass was an expensive process; and in order to
avoid the frequent necessity of it, people fastened their windows
into the wall, so that they could not be opened. This excluded air,
as well as light and sun-warmth; and gradually colored windows fell
into disuse.

Bernard’s father was poor, and the profits of his business were too
scanty to yield a comfortable support for his family. Therefore,
the young man, when he was eighteen years old, strapped a scantily
filled wallet upon his shoulders, and marched forth into the
world to seek his fortune. Francis I. and Charles V. were then
devastating half Europe by their wars, and the highways were filled
with military adventurers and crippled soldiers. From these the
young traveller obtained his first glimpses of the violence and
intrigues going on in the world beyond his native forests.

He was also overtaken by a travelling cloth-merchant, who told
him of many new things. In order to dignify his own calling, he
enumerated many great men who had been employed in trade. Among
others, he mentioned a renowned Athenian, called “the divine
Plato,” by reason of the excellence of his wisdom, who had sold
olive-oil in Egypt, to defray the expenses of travelling there.
“I never heard of Plato,” said Bernard. “O, you are a wild bird
from the forest,” replied the trader; “you can only pipe as you
have been taught by nature. But I advise you to make acquaintance
with books. Our King Francis is now doing so much to encourage the
arts and sciences, that every artisan can become wise, if he makes
good use of his leisure. Our shops may now be our schools.” “Then
I should wish the whole world to be my shop,” rejoined Bernard. “I
feel that earth and air are full of mysteries and wonders; full of
the sublime wisdom of God.”

So he wandered on, reading, as he had done from childhood, in “the
book of earth and heaven, which is open to all.”

  “For Nature, the old nurse, took
    The child upon her knee,
   Saying, ‘Here is a story-book
    Thy Father has written for thee.’

  “‘Come, wander with me,’ she said,
   ‘Into regions yet untrod;
   And read what is still unread
    In the manuscripts of God.’

  “And he wandered away and away,
    With Nature, the dear old nurse,
   Who sang to him night and day
    The rhymes of the universe.”

If lizards were basking in the sunshine, he stopped to admire
their gliding motions, and prismatic changes of color. If he found
a half-covered snail among the wet mosses, he lingered till he
ascertained that it was gradually making a new shell from its own
saliva. If a stone was curious in form or shape, he picked it up
and put it in his wallet; and oftentimes he would crack them,
to discover their interior structure. Every new flower and seed
attracted his attention, and excited wonder at the marvellous
varieties of Nature. These things are hinted at all through his
writings. He says: “In walking under the fruit-trees, I received
a great contentment and many joyous pleasures; for I saw the
squirrels gathering the fruits, and leaping from branch to branch,
with many pretty looks and gestures. I saw nuts gathered by
the rooks, who rejoiced in taking their repast, dining on the
said nuts. Under the apple-trees, I found hedgehogs, that rolled
themselves into a round form, and, thrusting out their sharp
quills, they rolled over the apples, which stuck on the points, and
so they went burdened. These things have made me such a lover of
the fields, that it seems to me there are no treasures in the world
so precious as the little branches of trees and plants. I hold
them in more esteem than mines of gold and silver.” This loving
communion with Nature was not mere idle dreaming. Always he was
drawing inferences from what he saw, and curiously inquiring into
the causes of things.

He supported himself by painting glass, and sketching portraits.
He says, in his modest way, “They thought me a better painter than
I was.” If he arrived in a town where a cathedral or an abbey was
being built, he sometimes tarried long to make a variety of rich
patterns for the windows. In other places, he would find only
a few repairs required in the windows of castles or churches,
and so would quickly pass on. To arrange mosaic patterns of
different-colored glass required constant use of rule and compass,
and this suggested the study of geometry, which he pursued with
characteristic eagerness. The knowledge thus acquired made him
a skilful surveyor, and he was much employed in mapping out
boundaries, and making plans for houses and gardens, a business
which he found more profitable than glass-work or portraits. These
various occupations brought him occasionally into contact with
men who were learned in the arts and sciences, according to the
standard of learning at that time, and his active mind never failed
to glean something from such interviews. A French translation of
the Scriptures had been published in 1498. He seems to have had
a copy with him during his travels, and to have studied it with
reverential attention. Thus constantly observing and acquiring,
the young man traversed France, from Spain to the Netherlands, and
roamed through a portion of Germany. Ten years were spent in this
way, during which he obtained the best portion of that education
which he afterward turned to good account.

He is supposed to have been about twenty-nine years old, when he
married, and settled in the town of Saintes, in the western part
of France. He supported his family by glass-work, portraits, and
surveying. A few years after his marriage, some one showed him an
enamelled cup, brought from Italy. It seemed a slight incident;
but it woke the artistic spirit slumbering in his soul, and was
destined to effect a complete revolution in his life. He says: “It
was an earthen cup, turned and enamelled with so much beauty, that
from that time I entered into controversy with my own thoughts. I
began to think that if I should discover how to make enamels, I
could make earthen vessels very prettily; because God had gifted me
with some knowledge of drawing. So, regardless of the fact that I
had no knowledge of clays, I began to seek for the enamel, as a man
gropes in the dark.”

In order to begin to comprehend the difficulties he had to
encounter, we must know that only the rudest kind of common pottery
had then been made in France, and even with the manufacture of
that he was entirely unacquainted. If he had been unmarried, he
might have travelled among the potters of Europe, as he had among
the glass-makers, and have obtained useful hints from them; but
his family increased fast, and needed his protection and support.
Tea was not introduced into Europe till a hundred years later; and
there were no specimens of porcelain from China, except here and
there a costly article imported by the rich. He was obliged to
test the qualities of various kinds of clays; what chemical agents
would produce enamel; what other agents would produce colors;
and the action of heat on all of them. He bought quantities of
earthen jars, broke them into fragments, applied to each piece some
particular chemical substance, and tried them all in a furnace.
He says: “I pounded all the substances I could suppose likely to
make anything. Having blundered several times, at great expense,
and through much labor, I was every day pounding and grinding new
materials, and constructing new furnaces, which cost much money
and consumed my wood and my time.” While these expenses were going
on, his former occupations were necessarily suspended; thus “the
candle was burning out at both ends.” His wife began to complain.
Still he went on, trying new compounds, as he says, “always with
great cost, loss of time, confusion and sorrow.” The privations of
his family and the anxiety of his wife gave him so much pain, that
he relinquished his experiments for a while. He says: “Seeing I
could not in this way come at my intention, I occupied myself in
my art of painting and glass-working, and comported myself as if
I were not zealous to dive any more into the secret of enamels.”
The king ordered extensive surveys, and he found that employment
so profitable, that his family were soon at ease again. But that
Italian cup was always in his mind. He says: “When I found myself
with a little money, I resumed my affection for pursuing in the
track of the enamels.” For two years he kept up a series of
experiments, under all manner of difficulties, and always without
success. His wife scolded, and even his own courage began to fail.
At last he applied more than three hundred kinds of mixtures to
more than three hundred fragments, and put them all in the furnace;
resolved that if this experiment proved a failure, he would try
no more. He tells us: “_One_ of the pieces came out white and
polished, in a way that caused me such joy, as made me think I was
become a new creature.” He was then thirty-seven years old.

He was merely at the beginning of what he aimed to accomplish. He
had discovered how to make the enamel, but he still knew nothing
of pottery, or of the effect which various degrees of heat would
produce on colors. A new furnace was necessary, and he proceeded
to build it, with prodigious labor. Being too poor to hire help,
he brought bricks on his own back from a distant kiln; he made
his own mortar, and drew the water with which it was tempered. He
fashioned vessels of clay, to which his enamel could be applied.
For more than a month he kept up an incessant fire night and day,
and was continually grinding materials in a hand-mill, which it
usually required two men to turn. He believed himself to be very
near complete success, and everything depended upon not letting the
heat of the furnaces go down. In the desperation of his poverty and
the excitement of his sanguine hopes, he burned the garden-fence,
and even some of the tables, doors, and floors of his house. His
wife became frantic, and gave him no peace. She was to be pitied,
poor woman! Not being acquainted with chemical experiments, she did
not know, as _he_ did, that he was really on the point of making a
great and lucrative discovery. She had heard it so long that she
didn’t believe it. They had a large family of children, and while
their father was trying expensive experiments, several of them were
dying of a disease prevalent at that time. It was a gloomy and
trying period for all of them. He says: “I suffered an anguish that
I cannot speak. I was quite exhausted and dried up by the heat of
the furnace. It was more than a month since my shirt had been dry
upon me. I was the object of mockery. Even those from whom solace
was due ran crying through the town that I was burning my floors.
In this way I came to be regarded as a madman. I was in debt in
several places. I had two children at nurse, and was unable to
pay the nurses. Men jested at me as I passed through the streets,
and said it was right for me to die of hunger, since I had left
following my trade. Some hope still remained to sustain me, for
my last experiments had turned out tolerably well, and I thought
I knew enough to get my living; but I found I was far enough from
that yet.”

The want of means to build sheds to cover his clay vessels was
another great difficulty. After working all day, and late into
the night, sometimes a heavy rain would spoil all his work,
just as he had it ready to bake. He describes himself, on such
occasions, as utterly weak and exhausted, so that walking home he
“reeled like a man drunk with wine.” He says: “Filled with a great
sorrow, inasmuch as having labored long I saw my labor wasted, I
would retire soiled and drenched, to find in my chamber a second
persecution worse than the first; which now causes me to marvel
that I was not consumed by suffering.”

In the midst of all this tribulation, the struggling artist had
one source of consolation. Jean Cauvin, better known to us as John
Calvin, had been preaching Protestant doctrines in France, and
had given rise to the sect called Huguenots. The extravagance and
licentiousness of society at that period, and the abuses practised
by a powerful and wealthy priesthood, naturally inclined this
pure and simple-minded man to the doctrines of the Reformers. He
became acquainted with an artisan of the same turn of mind, whom
he describes as “simple, unlearned, and marvellously poor.” His
delight was to hear Palissy read the Scriptures. Gradually his
listeners increased to ten, and they formed a little society, which
took turns in exhortation and prayer. One of them is supposed to
have been an innkeeper, who, from religious sympathy, allowed poor
Palissy to take meals at his house on credit.

He still continued his experiments, and met with successive
disappointments of one kind or another. At last, he thought he
had learned how to adjust everything just right; and confident
of success, he one day put into the oven a batch of vessels,
beautifully formed and painted. But a new misfortune awaited him.
The materials of his furnace contained flints. These expanded
and burst with the great heat, and struck into the vessels while
they were soft, injuring the enamel, and covering the surface with
irregular sharp points. This blow almost prostrated him; for he
had expected this beautiful batch would bring a considerable sum
of money for the support of his family, and put to silence those
that jeered at him. But he was a man of wonderful endurance. He
says: “Having remained some time upon the bed, I reflected that
if a man should fall into a pit, it would be his duty to try to
get out again.” So the brave soul roused himself, and set to
work diligently to earn money, by his old trades of painting and
surveying.

Having supplied the necessities of his family, he again returned to
his pottery; fully believing that his losses and hazards were over,
and that he could now make articles that would bring good prices.
But new disappointments awaited him. The green with which he
painted his lizards burnt before the brown of the serpents melted;
a strong current of air in the furnace blew ashes all over his
beautiful vessels and spoiled the enamel. He says: “Before I could
render my different enamels fusible at the same degree of heat, I
thought I should be at the door of my sepulchre. I was so wasted in
my person that there was no form nor prominence in the muscles of
my arms or legs; also the said legs were throughout of one size;
so that when I walked, garters and stockings were at once down
upon my heels. I often roamed about the fields, considering my
miseries and weariness, and above all things, that in my own house
I could have no peace, nor do anything that was considered good. I
was despised and mocked by all. Nevertheless, I had a hope, which
caused me to work so like a man, that I often did my best to laugh
and amuse people who came to see me, though within me all was very
sad.”

At the end of ten years from the commencement of his experiments,
he succeeded in making a kind of ware, of mixed enamels, resembling
jasper. It was not what he had been aiming to accomplish, but it
was considered pretty, and sold well enough to support his family
comfortably. While he was making continual improvements in his
pottery, the Huguenots were increasing to a degree that provoked
persecution. A schoolmaster in a neighboring town, who “preached
on Sundays, and was much beloved by the people,” was brought
to Saintes and publicly burnt. But Palissy and his little band
were not intimidated. They continued to meet for exhortation and
prayer. At first it was done mostly at midnight; but the pure
and pious lives of these men and women formed such a contrast
to the licentiousness and blasphemy prevailing round them, that
they gradually gained respect; insomuch that they influenced the
magistrates of the town to pass laws restraining gambling and
dissipation. So great a change was produced, that, when Palissy
was fifty-one years old, he says: “On Sundays you might see
tradesmen rambling through the fields, groves, and other places, in
bands, singing psalms, canticles, and spiritual songs, or reading
and instructing each other. You might see young women seated in
gardens and other places, who in like way delighted themselves with
singing all holy things. The very children were so well instructed
that they had no longer a puerility of manner, but a look of manly
fortitude. These things had so well prospered that people had
changed their old manners, even to their very countenances.”

After six years more of successive improvements, making sixteen
years in the whole, this persevering man at last accomplished the
object for which he had toiled and suffered so much. He produced
a very beautiful kind of china, which became celebrated under the
name of Palissy Ware. These articles were elaborately adorned with
vines, flowers, butterflies, lizards, serpents, and other animals.
He had always been such a loving observer of nature that we cannot
wonder at being told “he copied these, in form and color, with
the minute exactness of a naturalist, so that the species of each
could be determined accurately.” These beautiful articles sold at
high prices. Orders flowed in from kings and nobles. The Constable
Montmorenci, a nobleman of immense wealth, employed Palissy to
decorate his magnificent Chateau d’Ecouen, about twelve miles from
Paris. There he made richly painted windows, covered with Scripture
scenes, some of his own designing, others copied from Raphael and
Albert Durer. Vases and statuettes of his beautiful china were
deposited in various places; and the floors of chapel and galleries
were inlaid with china tiles of his painting. Among the groves he
formed a very curious grotto of china. He modelled rugged rocks,
“sloping, tortuous, and lumpy,” which he painted with imitations of
such herbs and mosses as grow in moist places. Brilliant lizards
appeared to glide over its surface, “in many pleasant gestures and
agreeable contortions.” In the trenches of water were some living
frogs and fishes, and other china ones, which so closely resembled
them as not to be easily distinguished. At the foot of the rocks,
branches of coral, of his manufacture, appeared to grow in the
water. A poet of that period, praising this work, says: “The real
lizard on the moss has not more lustre than the lizards in that
house made famous by your new work. The plants look not sweeter in
the fields, and green meadows are not more preciously enamelled,
than those which grow under your hand.” The Constable Montmorenci
built a convenient shop for him, where he worked with two of his
sons. A large china dog at the door was so natural, that the dogs
often barked at it and challenged it to fight.

Meanwhile, a terrible storm was gathering over the heads of
the Huguenots. Civil war broke out between the Catholics and
Protestants. Old men were burnt for quoting Scripture, and young
girls stabbed for singing psalms. But worldly prosperity and the
flattery of the great could not tempt Palissy to renounce or
conceal his faith. He pursued his artistic labors, though he says,
“For two months I was greatly terrified, hearing nothing every
day but reports of horrible murders.” He would have fallen among
the first victims, had it not been for written protections from
powerful nobles, who wanted ornamental work done which no other man
could do. The horrible massacre of St. Bartholomew occurred when he
was sixty-three years old, but he escaped by aid of his powerful
patrons. The officers appointed to hunt out Huguenots longed to
arrest him, but did not dare to do it in the daytime. At last they
came tramping about his house at midnight, and carried him off
to a prison in Bordeaux. The judges would gladly have put him to
death, but their proceedings were stopped by orders from the Queen
Mother, Catherine de Medicis. Montmorenci, Montpensier, and other
influential Catholic nobles, who had works uncompleted, and who
doubtless felt kindly toward the old artist, interceded with her,
and she protected him; not because he was a good man, but because
the art he practised was unique and valuable. The enamelled
Italian cup, which had troubled so many years of his life, proved
the cause of its being saved.

The last ten years of Palissy’s mortal existence were spent in
Paris. He had an establishment in the grounds of the Tuileries,
where he manufactured vases, cups, plates, and curious
garden-basins and baskets, ornamented with figures in relief. His
high reputation drew toward him many men of taste and learning,
who, knowing his interest in all the productions of Nature,
presented him with many curious specimens of shells, minerals,
fossils, &c. He formed these into a Museum, where scholars met
to discuss the laws and operations of Nature. This is said to
have been the first society established in Paris for the pure
advancement of science. When he was sixty-six years old, he
began a course of public lectures, which he continued to deliver
annually for ten years. These were the first lectures on Natural
History ever delivered in Paris. The best men of the Capital went
there to discuss with him, and to hear him state, in his simple,
earnest fashion, the variety of curious things he had observed in
travels by mountain and seashore, through field and forest, and
in his experiments on glass and china. Some pedants were disposed
to undervalue his teachings, because he had never learned Greek
or Latin. Undisturbed by this, he cordially invited them to come
and disprove his statements if they could, saying: “I want to
ascertain whether the Latins know more upon these subjects than I
do. I am indeed a simple artisan, poorly enough trained in letters;
but the things themselves have not less value than if they were
uttered by a man more eloquent. I had rather speak truth in my
rustic tongue, than lie in rhetoric.”

He published several books on Agriculture, Volcanoes, the Formation
of Rocks, the Laws of Water, &c. His last book was written when he
was seventy-one years old. Scientific knowledge was then in its
infancy, but adequate judges consider his ideas far in advance of
his time. A modern French scholar calls him, “So great a naturalist
as only Nature could produce.” There is a refreshing simplicity
about his style of writing, and his communications with the world
were obviously not the result of vanity, but of general benevolence
and religious reverence. He felt that all he had was from God, and
that it was a duty to impart it freely. He says: “I had employed
much time in the study of earths, stones, waters, and metals; and
old age pressed me to multiply the talents God had given me. For
that reason, I thought it would be good to bring to the light those
excellent secrets, in order to bequeath them to posterity.”

He continued vigorous in mind and body, and was remarked for
acuteness and ready wit. He abstained from theological discussions
in his teachings, but made no secret of the fact that his opinions
remained unchanged. Amid the frivolity, dissipation, and horrid
scenes of violence that were going on in Paris, he quietly busied
himself making artistic designs, and imparting his knowledge
of natural history; recreating himself frequently with the old
pleasure of rambling in field and forest, taking loving observation
of all God’s little creatures.

He was seventy-six years old, when the king, Henry III., issued
a decree forbidding Protestants to exercise their worship, on
pain of death, and banishing all who had previously practised it.
Angry bigots clamored for the death of the brave old potter. The
powerful patrons of his art again prevented his execution; but
the tide was so strong against the Reformers, that he was sent to
the Bastile. Two Huguenot girls were in prison with him, and they
mutually sustained each other with prayer and psalms. The king, in
his fashionable frills and curls, occasionally visited the prisons,
and he naturally felt a great desire that the distinguished old
Bernard Palissy should make a recantation of his faith. One day he
said to him: “My good man, you have been forty-five years in the
service of the queen, my mother, or in mine; and in the midst of
all the executions and massacres, we have allowed you to live in
your religion. But now I am so hardly pressed by the Guise party,
and by my people, that I am compelled, in spite of myself, to
order the execution of these two poor young women, and of yourself
also, unless you recant.” “Sire,” replied the old man, “that is not
spoken like a king. You have often said you pitied _me_; but now I
pity _you_; because you have said, ‘I am _compelled_.’ These girls
and I, who have our part in the kingdom of Heaven, will teach you
to talk more royally. Neither the Guises, nor all your people, nor
yourself, can compel the old potter to bow down to your images of
clay. I can die.”

The two girls were burnt a few months afterward. Palissy remained
in prison four years, and there he died at eighty years of age. The
secrets of the Bastile were well kept, and we have no record of
those years. We only know that, like John Bunyan, he wrote a good
deal in prison. The thick, dark walls must have been dismal to
           one who so loved the free air, and who valued
                  trees and shrubs “beyond silver
                   and gold.” But the martyr was
                     not alone. He had with him
                      the God whom he trusted,
                        and the memories of
                         an honest, useful,
                           and religious
                               life.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]




OLD AGE COMING.

    By Elizabeth Hamilton, a Scotch writer, author of “The
    Cottagers of Glenburnie,” and several other sensible and
    interesting works. She died, unmarried, about fifty years ago,
    nearly sixty years old. These lines were written in such very
    broad Scotch, that I have taken the liberty to render them in
    English, making no changes, except a few slight variations,
    which the necessities of rhyme required.


  Is that Old Age, who’s knocking at the gate?
  I trow it is. He sha’n’t be asked to wait.
  You’re kindly welcome, friend! Nay, do not fear
  To show yourself! You’ll cause no trouble here.
  I know there’re some who tremble at your name,
  As though you brought with you reproach or shame;
  And who of thousand lies would bear the sin,
  Rather than own you for their kith and kin.
  But far from shirking you as a disgrace,
  Thankful I am to live to see your face.
  Nor will I e’er disown you, or take pride
  To think how long I might your visit hide.
  I’ll do my best to make you well respected,
  And fear not for your sake to be neglected.
  Now you have come, and, through all kinds of weather
  We’re doomed from this time forth to jog together,
  I’d fain make compact with you, firm and strong,
  On terms of give and take, to hold out long.
  If you’ll be civil, I will liberal be;
  Witness the list of what I’ll give to thee.
  First then, I here make o’er, for good and aye,
  All youthful fancies, whether bright or gay.
  Beauties and graces, too, might be resigned,
  But much I fear they would be hard to find;
  For ’gainst your daddy Time they could not stand,
  Nor bear the grip of his relentless hand.
  But there’s my skin, which you may further crinkle,
  And write your name, at length, on ev’ry wrinkle.
  On my brown locks your powder you may throw,
  And bleach them to your fancy, white as snow.
  But look not, Age, so wistful at my mouth,
  As if you longed to pull out ev’ry tooth!
  Let them, I do beseech you, keep their places!
  Though, if you like, you’re free to paint their faces.
  My limbs I yield you; and if you see meet
  To clap your icy shackles on my feet,
  I’ll not refuse; but if you drive out gout,
  Will bless you for’t, and offer thanks devout.
  So much I give to you with free good-will;
  But, O, I fear that more you look for still.
  I know, by your stern look and meaning leers,
  You want to clap your fingers on my ears.
  Right willing, too, you are, as I surmise,
  To cast your misty powder in my eyes.
  But, O, in mercy spare my little twinklers!
  And I will always wear your crystal blinkers.
  Then ’bout my ears I’d fain a bargain strike,
  And give my hand upon it, if you like.
  Well then--would you consent their use to _share_?
  ’Twould serve us both, and be a bargain rare.
  I’d have it thus,--When babbling fools intrude,
  Gabbling their noisy nonsense for no good;
  Or when ill-nature, well brushed up with wit,
  With sneer sarcastic, takes its aim to hit;
  Or when detraction, meanest sort of pride,
  Spies out small faults, and seeks great worth to hide;
  Then make me deaf as ever deaf can be!
  At all _such_ times, my ears I lend to thee.
  But when, in social hours, you see combined
  Genius and wisdom, fruits of heart and mind,
  Good sense, good nature, wit in playful mood,
  And candor, e’en from ill extracting good;
  O, then, old friend, I _must_ have back my hearing!
  To want it then would be an ill past bearing.
  I’d rather sit alone, in wakeful dreaming,
  Than catch the sound of words without their meaning.
  You will not promise? O, you’re very glum!
  Right hard to manage, you’re so cold and dumb!
  No matter.--Whole and sound I’ll keep my _heart_.
  Not from one crumb on’t will I ever part.
  Its kindly warmth shall ne’er be chilled by all
  The coldest breath that from your lips can fall.
  You needn’t vex yourself, old churl, nor fret!
  My kindly feelings you shall never get.
  And though to take my hearing you rejoice,
  In spite of you, I’ll still hear friendship’s voice.
  And though you take the rest, it shall not grieve me;
  For gleams of cheerful spirits you _must_ leave me.
  But let me whisper in your ear, Old Age,
  I’m bound to travel with you but one stage.
  Be’t long or short, you cannot keep me back;
  And when we reach the _end_ on’t, you must pack!
  Be’t soon or late, we part forever there!
  Other companionship I then shall share.
  This blessed change to me you’re bound to bring.
  You need not think I shall be loath to spring
  From your poor feeble side, you churl uncouth!
  Into the arms of Everlasting Youth.
  All that your thieving hands have stolen away
  He will, with interest, to me repay.
  Fresh gifts and graces freely he’ll bestow,
  More than the heart has wished, or mind can know.
  You need not wonder then, nor swell with pride.
  That I so kindly welcomed you as guide
  To one who’s far your better. Now all’s told.
  Let us set out upon our journey cold.
  With no vain boasts, no vain regrets tormented.
  We’ll quietly jog on our way, contented.

       *       *       *       *       *

  “On he moves to meet his latter end,
  Angels around befriending virtue’s friend;
  Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay,
  While resignation gently slopes the way;
  And, all his prospects brightening to the last,
  His heaven commences ere the world is past.”

                        GOLDSMITH




[Illustration]




UNMARRIED WOMEN.

BY L. MARIA CHILD.


Society moves slowly toward civilization, but when we compare
epochs half a century, or even a quarter of a century apart, we
perceive many signs that progress _is_ made. Among these pleasant
indications is the fact that the phrase “old maid” has gone
wellnigh out of fashion; that jests on the subject are no longer
considered witty, and are never uttered by gentlemen. In my youth,
I not unfrequently heard women of thirty addressed something in
this style: “What, not married yet? If you don’t take care, you
will outstand your market.” Such words could never be otherwise
than disagreeable, nay, positively offensive, to any woman of
sensibility and natural refinement; and that not merely on account
of wounded vanity, or disappointed affection, or youthful visions
receding in the distance, but because the idea of being in the
_market_, of being a _commodity_, rather than an individual, is
odious to every human being.

I believe a large proportion of unmarried women are so simply
because they have too much conscience and delicacy of feeling to
form marriages of interest or convenience, without the concurrence
of their affections and their taste. A woman who is determined
to be married, and who “plays her cards well,” as the phrase is,
usually succeeds. But how much more estimable and honorable is she
who regards a life-union as too important and sacred to be entered
into from motives of vanity or selfishness.

To rear families is the ordination of Nature, and where it is done
conscientiously it is doubtless the best education that men or
women can receive. But I doubt the truth of the common remark that
the discharge of these duties makes married people less selfish
than unmarried ones. The selfishness of single women doubtless
shows itself in more petty forms; such as being disturbed by crumbs
on the carpet, and a litter of toys about the house. But fathers
and mothers are often selfish on a large scale, for the sake of
advancing the worldly prosperity or social condition of their
children. Not only is spiritual growth frequently sacrificed in
pursuit of these objects, but principles are trampled on, which
involve the welfare of the whole human race. Within the sphere
of my own observation, I must confess that there is a larger
proportion of unmarried than of married women whose sympathies are
active and extensive.

I have before my mind two learned sisters, familiar with Greek,
Latin, and French, and who, late in life, acquired a knowledge of
German also. They spent more than sixty years together, quietly
digging out gold, silver, or iron from the rich mines of ancient
and modern literature, and freely imparting their treasures
wherever they were called for. No married couple could have been
more careful of each other in illness, or more accommodating toward
each other’s peculiarities; yet they were decided individuals; and
their talk never wanted

                        “An animated No,
  To brush its surface, and to make it flow.”

Cultivated people enjoyed their conversation, which was both wise
and racy; a steady light of good sense and large information, with
an occasional flashing rocket of not ill-natured satire. Yet their
intellectual acquisitions produced no contempt for the customary
occupations of women. All their friends received tasteful keepsakes
of their knitting, netting, or crocheting, and all the poor of the
town had garments of their handiwork. Neither their sympathies
nor their views were narrowed by celibacy. Early education had
taught them to reverence everything that was established; but
with this reverence they mingled a lively interest in all the
great progressive questions of the day. Their ears were open to
the recital of everybody’s troubles and everybody’s joys. On New
Year’s day, children thronged round them for books and toys, and
every poor person’s face lighted up as they approached; for they
were sure of kindly inquiries and sympathizing words from them, and
their cloaks usually opened to distribute comfortable slippers, or
warm stockings of their own manufacture. When this sisterly bond,
rendered so beautiful by usefulness and culture, was dissolved by
death, the survivor said of her who had departed: “During all her
illness she leaned upon me as a child upon its mother; and O, how
blessed is now the consciousness that I never disappointed her!”
This great bereavement was borne with calmness, for loneliness was
cheered by hope of reunion. On the anniversary of her loss the
survivor wrote to me: “I find a growing sense of familiarity with
the unseen world. It is as if the door were invitingly left ajar,
and the distance were hourly diminishing. I never think of _her_
as alone. The unusual number of departed friends for whom we had
recently mourned seem now but an increase to her happiness.”

I had two other unmarried friends, as devoted to each other, and as
tender of each other’s peculiarities as any wedded couple I ever
knew. Without being learned, they had a love of general reading,
which, with active charities, made their days pass profitably and
pleasantly. They had the orderly, systematic habits common to
single ladies, but their sympathies and their views were larger and
more liberal than those of their married sisters. Their fingers
were busy for the poor, whom they were always ready to aid and
comfort, irrespective of nation or color. Their family affections
were remarkably strong, yet they had the moral courage to espouse
the unpopular cause of the slave, in quiet opposition to the
prejudices of beloved relatives. Death sundered this tie when both
were advanced in years. The departed one, though not distinguished
for beauty during her mortal life, had, after her decease, a
wonderful loveliness, like that of an angelic child. It was the
outward impress of her interior life.

Few marriages are more beautiful or more happy than these sisterly
unions; and the same may be said of a brother and sister, whose
lives are bound together. All lovers of English literature know
how charmingly united in mind and heart were Charles Lamb and his
gifted sister; and our own poet, Whittier, so dear to the people’s
heart, has a home made lovely by the same fraternal relation of
mutual love and dependence.

A dear friend of mine, whom it was some good man’s loss not to
have for a life-mate, adopted the orphan sons of her brother, and
reared them with more than parental wisdom and tenderness, caring
for all their physical wants, guiding them in precept and example
by the most elevated moral standard, bestowing on them the highest
intellectual culture, and studying all branches with them, that she
might in all things be their companion.

Nor is it merely in such connections, which somewhat resemble
wedded life, that single women make themselves useful and
respected. Many remember the store kept for so long a time in
Boston by Miss Ann Bent.

Her parents being poor, she early began to support herself by
teaching. A relative subsequently furnished her with goods to sell
on commission; and in this new employment she manifested such good
judgment, integrity, and general business capacity, that merchants
were willing to trust her to any extent. She acquired a handsome
property, which she used liberally to assist a large family of
sisters and nieces, some of whom she established in business
similar to her own. No mother or grandmother was ever more useful
or beloved. One of her nieces said: “I know the beauty and purity
of my aunt’s character, for I lived with her forty years, and I
never knew her to say or do anything which might not have been said
or done before the whole world.”

I am ignorant of the particulars of Miss Bent’s private history;
but doubtless a woman of her comely looks, agreeable manners, and
excellent character, might have found opportunities to marry, if
that had been a paramount object with her. She lived to be more
than eighty-eight years old, universally respected and beloved; and
the numerous relatives, toward whom she had performed a mother’s
part, cheered her old age with grateful affection.

There have also been many instances of single women who have
enlivened and illustrated their lives by devotion to the beautiful
arts. Of these none are perhaps more celebrated than the Italian
Sofonisba Angusciola and her two accomplished sisters. These
three “virtuous gentlewomen,” as Vasari calls them, spent their
lives together in most charming union. All of them had uncommon
talent for painting, but Sofonisba was the most gifted. One of
her most beautiful pictures represents her two sisters playing at
chess, attended by the faithful old duenna, who accompanied them
everywhere. This admirable artist lived to be old and blind; and
the celebrated Vandyke said of her, in her later years: “I have
learned more from one blind old woman in Italy, than from all the
masters of the art.”

Many single women have also employed their lives usefully and
agreeably as authors. There is the charming Miss Mitford,
whose writings cheer the soul like a meadow of cowslips in the
springtime. There is Frederica Bremer, whose writings have blessed
so many souls. There is Joanna Baillie, Maria Edgeworth, Elizabeth
Hamilton, and our own honored Catherine M. Sedgwick, whose books
have made the world wiser and better than they found it.

I am glad to be sustained in my opinions on this subject by a
friend whose own character invests single life with peculiar
dignity. In a letter to me, she says: “I object to having single
women called a _class_. They are _individuals_, differing in the
qualities of their characters, like other human beings. Their
isolation, as a general thing, is the result of unavoidable
circumstances. The Author of Nature doubtless intended that men
and women should live together. But, in the present state of the
world’s progress, society has, in many respects, become artificial
in proportion to its civilization; and consequently the number of
single women must constantly increase. If humanity were in a state
of natural, healthy development, this would not be so; for young
people would then be willing to begin married life with simplicity
and frugality, and real happiness would increase in proportion to
the diminution of artificial wants. This prospect, however, lies in
the future, and many generations of single women must come and go
before it will be realized.

“But the achievement of _character_ is the highest end that can be
proposed to any human being, and there is nothing in single life to
prevent a woman from attaining this great object; on the contrary,
it is in many respects peculiarly favorable to it. The measure
of strength in character is the power to conquer circumstances
when they refuse to cooperate with us. The temptations peculiarly
incident to single life are petty selfishness, despondency under
the suspicion of neglect, and _ennui_ from the want of interesting
occupation. If an ordinary, feeble-minded woman is exposed to
these temptations, she will be very likely to yield to them. But
she would not be greatly different in character, if protected by a
husband and flanked with children; her feebleness would remain the
same, and would only manifest itself under new forms.

“Marriage, under favorable circumstances, is unquestionably a
promoter of human happiness. But mistakes are so frequently made by
entering thoughtlessly into this indissoluble connection, and so
much wretchedness ensues from want of sufficient mental discipline
to make the best of what cannot be remedied, that most people can
discover among their acquaintance as large a proportion of happy
single women as they can of happy wives. Moreover, the happiness of
unmarried women is as independent of mere gifts of fortune, as that
of other individuals. Indeed, all solid happiness must spring from
inward sources. Some of the most truly contented and respectable
women I have ever known have been domestics, who grew old in one
family, and were carefully looked after, in their declining days,
by the children of those whom they faithfully served in youth.

“Most single women might have married, had they seized upon the
first opportunity that offered; but some unrevealed attachment,
too high an ideal, or an innate fastidiousness, have left them
solitary; therefore, it is fair to assume that many of them have
more sensibility and true tenderness than some of their married
sisters. Those who remain single in consequence of too much worldly
ambition, or from the gratification of coquettish vanity, naturally
swell the ranks of those peevish, discontented ones, who bring
discredit on single life in the abstract. But when a delicate
gentlewoman deliberately prefers passing through life alone, to
linking her fate with that of a man toward whom she feels no
attraction, why should she ever repent of so high an exercise of
her reason? This class of women are often the brightest ornaments
of society. Men find in them calm, thoughtful friends, and safe
confidants, on whose sympathy they can rely without danger. In the
nursery, their labors, being voluntary, are less exhausting than a
parent’s. When the weary, fretted mother turns a deaf ear to the
twenty-times-repeated question, the baffled urchins retreat to the
indulgent aunt, or dear old familiar friend, sure of obtaining a
patient hearing and a kind response. Almost everybody can remember
some samples of such _Penates_, whose hearts seem to be too large
to be confined to any one set of children.

“Some of my fairest patterns of feminine excellence have been of
the single sisterhood. Of those unfortunate ones who are beacons,
rather than models, I cannot recall an individual whose character I
think would have been materially improved by marriage. The faults
which make a single woman disagreeable would probably exist to the
same degree if she were a wife; and the virtues which adorn her in
a state of celibacy would make her equally beloved and honored if
she were married. The human soul is placed here for development and
progress; and it is capable of converting all circumstances into
means of growth and advancement.

“Among my early recollections is that of a lady of stately
presence, who died while I was still young, but not till she
had done much to remove from my mind the idea that the name of
‘old maid’ was a term of reproach. She was the daughter of Judge
Russell, and aunt to the late Reverend and beloved Dr. Lowell. She
had been one of a numerous family of brothers and sisters, but in
my childhood was sole possessor of the old family mansion, where
she received her friends and practised those virtues which gained
for her the respect of the whole community. Sixty years ago, it
was customary to speak of single women with far less deference
than it now is; and I remember being puzzled by the extremely
respectful manner in which she was always mentioned. If there
were difficulties in the parish, or if any doubtful matters were
under discussion, the usual question was ‘What is Miss Russell’s
opinion?’ I used to think to myself, ‘She is an old maid, after
all, yet people always speak of her as if she were some great
person.’

“Miss Burleigh was another person of whom I used to hear much
through the medium of mutual friends. She resided with a married
sister in Salem, and was the ‘dear Aunt Susan,’ not only of the
large circle of her own nephews and nieces, but of all their
friends and favorites. Having ample means, she surrounded herself
with choice books and pictures, and such objects of Art or
Nature as would entertain and instruct young minds. Her stores
of knowledge were prodigious, and she had such a happy way of
imparting it, that lively boys were glad to leave their play, to
spend an hour with Aunt Susan. She read to her young friends at
stated times, and made herself perfectly familiar with them; and
as they grew older she became their chosen confidant. She was, in
fact, such a centre of light and warmth, that no one could approach
her sphere without being conscious of its vivifying influence.

“‘Aunt Sarah Stetson,’ another single lady, was a dear and honored
friend of my own. She was of masculine size and stature, gaunt
and ungainly in the extreme. But before she had uttered three
sentences, her hearers said to themselves, ‘Here is a wise woman!’
She was the oldest of thirteen children, early deprived of their
father, and she bore the brunt of life from youth upward. She
received only such education as was afforded by the public school
of an obscure town seventy years ago. To add to their scanty means
of subsistence, she learned the tailor’s trade. In process of time,
the other children swarmed off from the parental hive, the little
farm was sold, and she lived alone with her mother. She built a
small cottage out of her own earnings, and had the sacred pleasure
of taking her aged parent to her own home, and ministering with her
own hands to all her wants. For sixteen years, she never spent a
night from home, but assiduously devoted herself to the discharge
of this filial duty, and to the pursuance of her trade. Yet in the
midst of this busy life, she managed to become respectably familiar
with English literature, especially with history. Whatever she
read, she derived from it healthful aliment for the growth of her
mental powers. She was full of wise maxims and rules of life; not
doled out with see-saw prosiness, but with strong common sense,
rich and racy, and frequently flavored with the keenest satire.
She had a flashing wit, and wonderful power of detecting shams
of all sorts. Her religious opinions were orthodox, and she was
an embodiment of the Puritan character. She was kindly in her
feelings, and alive to every demonstration of affection, but she
had a granite firmness of principle, which rendered her awful
toward deceivers and transgressors. All the intellectual people of
the town sought her company with avidity. The Unitarian minister
and his family, a wealthy man, who happened to be also the chief
scholar in the place, and the young people generally, took pleasure
in resorting to Aunt Sarah’s humble home, to minister to her simple
wants, and gather up her words of wisdom. Her spirit was bright and
cheerful to the last. One of her sisters, who had been laboring
sixteen years as a missionary among the southwestern Indians, came
to New England to visit the scattered members of her family. After
seeing them in their respective homes, she declared: ‘Sarah is the
most light-hearted of them all; and it is only by _her_ fireside
that I have been able to forget past hardships in merry peals of
laughter.’

“During my last interview with Aunt Sarah, when she was past
seventy years of age, she said, ‘I have lived very agreeably
single; but if I become infirm, I suppose I shall feel the want
of life’s nearest ties.’ In her case, however, the need was of
short duration, and an affectionate niece supplied the place of a
daughter.

“Undoubtedly, the arms of children and grandchildren form the most
natural and beautiful cradle for old age. But loneliness is often
the widow’s portion, as well as that of the single woman; and
parents are often left solitary by the death or emigration of their
children.

“I am tempted to speak also of a living friend, now past her
sixtieth year. She is different from the others, but this
difference only confirms my theory that the mind can subdue all
things to itself. This lady is strictly feminine in all her habits
and pursuits, and regards the needle as the chief implement of
woman’s usefulness. If the Dorcas labors performed by her one pair
of hands could be collected into a mass, out of the wear and waste
of half a century, they would form an amazing pile. In former
years, when her health allowed her to circulate among numerous
family connections, her visits were always welcomed as a jubilee;
for every dilapidated wardrobe was sure to be renovated by Aunt
Mary’s nimble fingers. She had also a magic power of drawing the
little ones to herself. Next to their fathers and mothers, she was
the best beloved. The influence which her loving heart gained over
them in childhood increased with advancing years. She is now the
best and dearest friend of twenty or thirty nephews and nieces,
some of whom have families of their own.

“A large amount of what is termed mother-wit, a readiness at
repartee, and quickness in seizing unexpected associations of words
or ideas, rendered her generally popular in company; but the deep
cravings of her heart could never be satisfied with what is termed
success in society. The intimate love of a few valued friends was
what she always coveted, and never failed to win. For several
years she has been compelled by ill health to live entirely at
home. There she now is, fulfilling the most important mission
of her whole beneficent life, training to virtue and usefulness
five motherless children of her brother. Feeble and emaciated,
she lives in her chamber surrounded by these orphans, who now
constitute her chief hold on life. She shares all their pleasures,
is the depositary of their little griefs, and unites in herself
the relations of aunt, mother, and grandmother. She has faith to
believe that her frail thread of existence will be prolonged for
the sake of these little ones. The world still comes to her, in her
seclusion, through a swarm of humble friends and dependants, who
find themselves comforted and ennobled by the benignant patience
with which she listens to their various experiences, and gives
them kindly, sympathizing counsel, more valuable to them than mere
pecuniary aid. Her spirit of self-abnegation is carried almost
to asceticism; but she reserves her severity wholly for herself;
toward others she is prodigal of indulgence. This goodly temple of
a human soul was reared in these fair proportions upon a foundation
of struggles, disappointments, and bereavements. A friend described
her serene exterior as a ‘placid, ocean-deep manner’; under it lies
a silent history of trouble and trial, converted into spiritual
blessings.

“The conclusion of the matter in my mind is, that a woman may make
a respectable appearance as a wife, with a character far less
noble than is necessary to enable her to lead a single life with
usefulness and dignity. She is sheltered and concealed behind her
husband; but the unmarried woman must rely upon herself; and she
lives in a glass house, open to the gaze of every passer-by. To
the feeble-minded, marriage is almost a necessity, and if wisely
formed it doubtless renders the life of any woman more happy. But
happiness is not the sole end and aim of this life. We are sent
here to build up a
              character; and sensible women may easily
               reconcile themselves to a single life,
                  since even its disadvantages may
                     be converted into means of
                       development of all the
                        faculties with which
                          God has endowed
                               them.”

[Illustration]

    You are “getting into years.” Yes, but the years are getting
    into you; the ripe, mellow years. One by one, the crudities of
    your youth are falling off from you; the vanity, the egotism,
    the bewilderment, the uncertainty. Every wrong road into
    which you have wandered has brought you, by the knowledge of
    that mistake, nearer to the truth. Nearer and nearer you are
    approaching yourself.--GAIL HAMILTON.




[Illustration]




THE OLD MAID’S PRAYER TO DIANA.

    By Mrs. Tighe, an Irish author, who wrote more than fifty
    years ago, when single women had not attained to the honorable
    position which they now occupy.


  Since thou and the stars, my dear goddess, decree
  That, old maid as I am, an old maid I must be,
  O, hear the petition I offer to thee!
  For to bear it must be my endeavor:
  From the grief of my friendships all drooping around,
  Till not one whom I loved in my youth can be found;
  From the legacy-hunters, that near us abound,
  Diana, thy servant deliver!

  From the scorn of the young, and the flaunts of the gay,
  From all the trite ridicule rattled away
  By the pert ones, who know nothing wiser to say,--
  Or a spirit to laugh at them, give her!
  From repining at fancied neglected desert;
  Or, vain of a civil speech, bridling alert;
  From finical niceness, or slatternly dirt;
  Diana, thy servant deliver!

  From over solicitous guarding of pelf;
  From humor unchecked, that most obstinate elf;
  From every unsocial attention to self,
  Or ridiculous whim whatsoever;
  From the vaporish freaks, or methodical airs,
  Apt to sprout in a brain that’s exempted from cares;
  From impertinent meddling in others’ affairs;
  Diana, thy servant deliver!

  From the erring attachments of desolate souls;
  From the love of spadille, and of matadore voles;[F]
  Or of lap-dogs, and parrots, and monkeys, and owls,
  Be they ne’er so uncommon and clever;
  But chief from the love, with all loveliness flown,
  Which makes the dim eye condescend to look down
  On some ape of a fop, or some owl of a clown;
  Diana, thy servant deliver!

  From spleen at beholding the young more caressed;
  From pettish asperity, tartly expressed;
  From scandal, detraction, and every such pest;
  From all, thy true servant deliver!
  Nor let satisfaction depart from her cot;
  Let her sing, if at ease, and be patient if not;
  Be pleased when regarded, content when forgot,
  Till the Fates her slight thread shall dissever.

    [F] Terms used in Ombre, a game at cards.




[Illustration]




GRANDFATHER’S REVERIE.

BY THEODORE PARKER.


Grandfather is old. His back is bent. In the street he sees crowds
of men looking dreadfully young, and walking fearfully swift. He
wonders where all the _old_ folks are. Once, when a boy, he could
not find people young enough for him, and sidled up to any young
stranger he met on Sundays, wondering why God made the world so
old. Now he goes to Commencement to see his grandson take his
degree, and is astonished at the youth of the audience. “This
is new,” he says; “it did not use to be so fifty years ago.” At
meeting, the minister seems surprisingly young, and the audience
young. He looks round, and is astonished that there are so few
venerable heads. The audience seem not decorous. They come in
late, and hurry off early, clapping the doors after them with
irreverent bang. But grandfather is decorous, well mannered,
early in his seat; if jostled, he jostles not again, elbowed, he
returns it not; crowded, he thinks no evil. He is gentlemanly to
the rude, obliging to the insolent and vulgar; for grandfather
is a gentleman; not puffed up with mere money, but edified with
well-grown manliness. Time has dignified his good manners.

It is night. The family are all abed. Grandfather sits by his
old-fashioned fire. He draws his old-fashioned chair nearer
to the hearth. On the stand which his mother gave him are the
candlesticks, also of old time. The candles are three quarters
burnt down; the fire on the hearth also is low. He has been
thoughtful all day, talking half to himself, chanting a bit
of verse, humming a snatch of an old tune. He kissed his pet
granddaughter more tenderly than common, before she went to bed.
He takes out of his bosom a little locket; nobody ever sees it.
Therein are two little twists of hair. As Grandfather looks at
them, the outer twist of hair becomes a whole head of ambrosial
curls. He remembers stolen interviews, meetings by moonlight. He
remembers how sweet the evening star looked, and how he laid his
hand on another’s shoulder, and said, “_You_ are my evening star.”

The church-clock strikes the midnight hour. He looks in his locket
again. The other twist is the hair of his first-born son. At this
same hour of midnight, once, many years ago, he knelt and prayed,
when the long agony was over,--“My God, I thank thee that, though
I am a father, I am still a husband, too! What am I, that unto me
a life should be given and another spared!” Now he has children,
and children’s children, the joy of his old age. But for many a
year his wife has looked to him from beyond the evening star. She
is still the evening star herself, yet more beautiful; a star that
never sets; not mortal wife now, but angel.
         The last stick on his andirons snaps asunder, and
             falls outward. Two faintly smoking brands
                stand there. Grandfather lays them
                 together, and they flame up; the
                   two smokes are united in one
                      flame. “Even so let it
                        be in heaven,” says
                           Grandfather.

[Illustration]

    Useless, do you say you are? You are of _great_ use. You really
    are. How are you useful? By being a man that is old. Your old
    age is a public good. It is indeed. No child ever listens to
    your talk without having a good done it that no schooling could
    do. When you are walking, no one ever opens a gate for you
    to pass through, and no one ever honors you with any kind of
    help, without being himself the better for what he does; for
    fellow-feeling with you ripens his soul for him.--MOUNTFORD.




[Illustration]




THE HOUSE IN THE MEADOW.

BY LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.


  It stands in a sunny meadow,
    The house so mossy and brown,
  With its cumbrous old stone chimneys,
    And the gray roof sloping down.

  The trees fold their green arms round it,--
    The trees a century old;
  And the winds go chanting through them,
    And the sunbeams drop their gold.

  The cowslips spring in the marshes,
    The roses bloom on the hill,
  And beside the brook in the pasture
    The herds go feeding at will.

  Within, in the wide old kitchen,
    The old folk sit in the sun,
  That creeps through the sheltering woodbine,
    Till the day is almost done.

  Their children have gone and left them;
    They sit in the sun alone!
  And the old wife’s ears are failing
    As she harks to the well-known tone

  That won her heart in her girlhood,
    That has soothed her in many a care,
  And praises her now for the brightness
    Her old face used to wear.

  She thinks again of her bridal,--
    How, dressed in her robe of white,
  She stood by her gay young lover
    In the morning’s rosy light.

  O, the morning is rosy as ever,
    But the rose from her cheek is fled;
  And the sunshine still is golden,
    But it falls on a silvered head.

  And the girlhood dreams, once vanished,
    Come back in her winter time,
  Till her feeble pulses tremble
    With the thrill of spring-time’s prime.

  And looking forth from the window,
    She thinks how the trees have grown
  Since, clad in her bridal whiteness,
    She crossed the old door-stone.

  Though dimmed her eyes’ bright azure,
    And dimmed her hair’s young gold,
  The love in her girlhood plighted
    Has never grown dim or old.

  They sat in peace in the sunshine
    Till the day was almost done,
  And then, at its close, an angel
    Stole over the threshold stone.

  He folded their hands together,--
    He touched their eyelids with balm,
  And their last breath floated outward,
    Like the close of a solemn psalm!

  Like a bridal pair they traversed
    The unseen, mystical road
  That leads to the Beautiful City,
    Whose “builder and maker is God.”

  Perhaps in that miracle country
    They will give her lost youth back,
  And the flowers of the vanished spring-time
    Will bloom in the spirit’s track.

  One draught from the living waters
    Shall call back his manhood’s prime;
  And eternal years shall measure
    The love that outlasted time.

  But the shapes that they left behind them,
    The wrinkles and silver hair,--
  Made holy to us by the kisses
    The angel had printed there,--

  We will hide away ’neath the willows,
    When the day is low in the west,
  Where the sunbeams cannot find them,
    Nor the winds disturb their rest.

  And we’ll suffer no telltale tombstone,
    With its age and date, to rise
  O’er the two who are old no longer,
    In the Father’s house in the skies.




[Illustration]




A STORY OF ST. MARK’S EVE.

BY THOMAS HOOD.

    St. Mark’s Day is a festival which has been observed on the
    25th of April, in Catholic countries, from time immemorial. The
    superstition alluded to in the following story was formerly
    very generally believed, and vigils in the church-porch at
    midnight were common.


“I hope it’ll choke thee!” said Master Giles, the yeoman; and, as
he said it, he banged his big red fist on the old oak table. “I do
say I hope it’ll choke thee!”

The dame made no reply. She was choking with passion and a fowl’s
liver, which was the cause of the dispute. Much has been said and
sung concerning the advantage of congenial tastes amongst married
people; but the quarrels of this Kentish couple arose from too
great coincidence in their tastes. They were both fond of the
little delicacy in question, but the dame had managed to secure the
morsel to herself. This was sufficient to cause a storm of high
words, which, properly understood, signifies very low language.
Their meal times seldom passed over without some contention of
this sort. As sure as the knives and forks clashed, so did they;
being in fact equally greedy and disagreedy; and when they did pick
a quarrel, they picked it to the bone.

It was reported that, on some occasions, they had not even
contented themselves with hard speeches, but had come to scuffling;
he taking to boxing and she to pinching, though in a far less
amicable manner than is practised by the taker of snuff. On the
present difference, however, they were satisfied with “wishing each
other dead with all their hearts”; and there seemed little doubt
of the sincerity of the aspiration, on looking at their malignant
faces; for they made a horrible picture in this frame of mind.

Now it happened that this quarrel took place on the morning of
St. Mark; a saint who was supposed on that festival to favor his
votaries with a peep into the book of fate. For it was the popular
belief in those days, that, if a person should keep watch at
midnight beside the church, the apparitions of all those of the
parish who were to be taken by death before the next anniversary
would be seen entering the porch. The yeoman, like his neighbors,
believed most devoutly in this superstition; and in the very moment
that he breathed the unseemly aspiration aforesaid, it occurred
to him that the eve was at hand, when, by observing the rite of
St. Mark, he might know to a certainty whether this unchristian
wish was to be one of those that bear fruit. Accordingly, a little
before midnight, he stole quietly out of the house, and set forth
on his way to the church.

In the mean time, the dame called to mind the same ceremonial; and,
having the like motive for curiosity with her husband, she also put
on her cloak and calash, and set out, though by a different path,
on the same errand.

The night of the Saint was as dark and chill as the mysteries he
was supposed to reveal; the moon throwing but a short occasional
glance, as sluggish masses of cloud were driven slowly from
her face. Thus it fell out that our two adventurers were quite
unconscious of being in company, till a sudden glimpse of moonlight
showed them to each other, only a few yards apart. Both, through a
natural panic, became pale as ghosts; and both made eagerly toward
the church porch. Much as they had wished for this vision, they
could not help quaking and stopping on the spot, as if turned to
stones; and in this position the dark again threw a sudden curtain
over them, and they disappeared from each other.

The two came to one conclusion; each conceiving that St. Mark had
marked the other to himself. With this comfortable knowledge, the
widow and widower elect hied home again by the roads they came; and
as their custom was to sit apart after a quarrel, they repaired to
separate chambers, each ignorant of the other’s excursion.

By and by, being called to supper, instead of sulking as aforetime,
they came down together, each being secretly in the best humor,
though mutually suspected of the worst. Amongst other things on
the table, there was a calf’s sweetbread, being one of those very
dainties that had often set them together by the ears. The dame
looked and longed, but she refrained from its appropriation,
thinking within herself that she could give up sweetbreads _for one
year_; and the farmer made a similar reflection. After pushing the
dish to and fro several times, by a common impulse they divided
the treat; and then, having supped, they retired amicably to rest,
whereas until then they had seldom gone to bed without falling out.
The truth was, each looked upon the other as being already in the
churchyard.

On the morrow, which happened to be the dame’s birthday, the
farmer was the first to wake; and _knowing what he knew_, and
having, besides, but just roused himself out of a dream strictly
confirmatory of the late vigil, he did not scruple to salute his
wife, and wish her many happy returns of the day. The wife, _who
knew as much as he_, very readily wished him the same; having, in
truth, but just rubbed out of her eyes the pattern of a widow’s
bonnet that had been submitted to her in her sleep. She took care,
however, at dinner to give the fowl’s liver to the doomed man;
considering that when he was dead and gone she could have them, if
she pleased, seven days in the week; and the farmer, on his part,
took care to help her to many tidbits. Their feeling toward each
other was that of an impatient host with regard to an unwelcome
guest, showing scarcely a bare civility while in expectation of his
stay, but overloading him with hospitality when made certain of his
departure.

In this manner they went on for some six months, without any
addition of love between them, and as much selfishness as ever, yet
living in a subservience to the comforts and inclinations of each
other, sometimes not to be found even amongst couples of sincerer
affections. There were as many causes for quarrel as ever, but
every day it became less worth while to quarrel; so letting bygones
be bygones, they were indifferent to the present, and thought only
of the future, considering each other (to adopt a common phrase)
“as _good_ as dead.”

Ten months wore away, and the farmer’s birthday arrived in its
turn. The dame, who had passed an uncomfortable night, having
dreamed, in truth, that she did not much like herself in mourning,
saluted him as soon as the day dawned, and, with a sigh, wished
him many years to come. The farmer repaid her in kind, the sigh
included; his own visions having been of the painful sort; for he
dreamed of having a headache from wearing a black hat-band, and
the malady still clung to him when awake. The whole morning was
spent in silent meditation and melancholy, on both sides; and when
dinner came, although the most favorite dishes were upon the table,
they could not eat. The farmer, resting his elbows upon the board,
with his face between his hands, gazed wistfully on his wife. The
dame, leaning back in her high arm-chair, regarded the yeoman quite
as ruefully. Their minds, travelling in the same direction, and at
an equal rate, arrived together at the same reflection; but the
farmer was the first to give it utterance:

“Thee’d be _missed_, dame, if thee were to die!”

The dame started. Although she had nothing but death at that
moment before her eyes, she was far from dreaming of her own exit.
Recovering, however, from the shock, her thoughts flowed into their
old channel, and she rejoined in the same spirit:

“I wish, master, thee may live so long as I!”

The farmer, in his own mind, wished to live rather longer; for, at
the utmost, he considered that his wife’s bill of mortality had but
two months to run; the calculation made him sorrowful; during the
last few months she had consulted his appetite, bent to his humor,
and conformed her own inclinations to his, in a manner that could
never be supplied.

His wife, from being at first useful to him, had become agreeable,
and at last dear; and as he contemplated her approaching fate,
he could not help thinking out audibly, “that he should be a
lonesome man when she was gone.” The dame, this time, heard the
survivorship foreboded without starting; but she marvelled much
at what she thought the infatuation of a doomed man. So perfect
was her faith in the infallibility of St. Mark, that she had even
seen the symptoms of mortal disease, as palpable as plague-spots,
on the devoted yeoman. Giving his body up, therefore, for lost, a
strong sense of duty persuaded her that it was imperative on her,
as a Christian, to warn the unsuspecting farmer of his dissolution.
Accordingly, with a solemnity adapted to the subject, a tenderness
of recent growth, and a _memento mori_ face, she broached the
matter in the following question:

“Master, how bee’st thee?”

“As hearty as a buck, dame; and I wish thee the like.”

A dead silence ensued; the farmer was as unprepared as ever. There
is a great fancy for breaking the truth by dropping it gently; an
experiment which has never answered, any more than with iron-stone
china. The dame felt this; and, thinking it better to throw the
news at her husband at once, she told him, in as many words, that
he was a dead man.

It was now the yeoman’s turn to be staggered. By a parallel
course of reasoning, he had just wrought himself up to a similar
disclosure, and the dame’s death-warrant was just ready upon his
tongue, when he met with his own despatch, signed, sealed, and
delivered. Conscience instantly pointed out the oracle from which
she had derived the omen.

“Thee hast watched, dame, at the church porch, then?”

“Ay, master.”

“And thee didst see me spirituously?”

“In the brown wrap, with the boot hose. Thee were coming to the
church, by Fairthorn Gap; in the while I were coming by the Holly
Hedge.”

For a minute the farmer paused; but the next he burst into a fit
of uncontrollable laughter; peal after peal, each higher than the
last. The poor woman had but one explanation for this phenomenon.
She thought it a delirium; a lightening before death; and was
beginning to wring her hands, and lament, when she was checked by
the merry yeoman:

“Dame, thee bee’st a fool. It was I myself thee seed at the church
porch. I seed thee, too; with a notice to quit upon thy face; but,
thanks to God, thee bee’st a living; and that is more than I cared
to say of thee this day ten-month!”

The dame made no answer. Her heart was too full to speak; but,
throwing her arms round her husband, she showed that she shared
in his sentiment. And from that hour, by practising a careful
abstinence from offence, or a temperate sufferance of its
appearance, they became the most united couple in the county. But
it must be said, that their comfort was not complete till they had
seen each other, in safety, over the perilous anniversary of St.
Mark’s Eve.

       *       *       *       *       *

The moral this story conveys is one which might prove a useful
monitor to us all, if we could keep it in daily remembrance. Few,
indeed, are so coarse in their manifestations of ill-temper as this
Kentish couple are described; but we all indulge, more or less, in
unreasonable fretfulness, and petty acts of selfishness, in the
relations of husband and wife, parents and children, brothers and
sisters,--in fact, in all the relations of life. It would help
us greatly to be kind, forbearing, and self-sacrificing toward
neighbors, friends, and relatives, if it were always present to our
minds that death may speedily close our intercourse with them in
this world.--L. M. C.




[Illustration]




WHAT THE OLD WOMAN SAID.


  One summer eve, I chanced to pass, where, by the cottage gate,
  An aged woman in the town sat crooning to her mate.
  The frost of age was on her brow, its dimness in her eye,
  And her bent figure to and fro rocked all unconsciously.
  The frost of age was on her brow, yet garrulous her tongue,
  As she compared the “_doings now_,” with those when _she_ was young.
  “When _I_ was young, young gals were meek, and looked round kind of shy;
  And when they were compelled to speak, they did so modestly.
  They stayed at home, and did the work; made Indian bread and wheaten;
  And only went to singing-school, and _sometimes_ to night meetin’.
  And _children_ were obedient _then_; they had no saucy airs;
  And minded what their mothers said, and learned their hymns and prayers.
  But _now-a-days_ they know enough, before they know their letters;
  And young ones that can hardly walk will contradict their betters.
  Young women _now_ go kiting round, and looking out for beaux;
  And scarcely one in ten is found, who makes or mends her clothes!
    But then, I tell my daughter,
    Folks don’t do as they’d ought’-ter.

  When _I_ was young, if a man had failed, he shut up house and hall,
  And never ventured out till night, if he ventured out at all;
  And his wife sold all her china plates; and his sons came home from
          college;
  And his gals left school, and learned to wash and bake, and such like
          knowledge;
  They gave up cake and pumpkin-pies, and had the plainest eatin’;
  And never asked folks home to tea, and scarcely went to meetin’.
  The man that was a Bankrupt called, was kind’er shunned by men,
  And hardly dared to show his head amongst his town folks _then_.
  But _now-a-days_, when a merchant fails, they say he makes a penny;
  The wife don’t have a gown the less, and his daughters just as many;
  His sons they smoke their choice cigars, and drink their costly wine;
  And _she_ goes to the opera, and _he_ has folks to dine!
  He walks the streets, he drives his gig; men show him all civilities;
  And what in _my_ day we called _debts_, are now his _lie_-abilities!
  They call the man unfortunate who ruins half the city,--
  In my day ’twas his _creditors_ to whom we gave our pity.
    But then, I tell my daughter,
    Folks don’t do as they’d ough’-ter.”

                        FROM THE OLIVE BRANCH.




THE SPRING JOURNEY.


  O, green was the corn as I rode on my way,
  And bright were the dews on the blossoms of May,
  And dark was the sycamore’s shade to behold,
  And the oak’s tender leaf was of emerald and gold.

  The thrush from his holly, the lark from his cloud,
  Their chorus of rapture sung jovial and loud;
  From the soft vernal sky to the soft grassy ground,
  There was beauty above me, beneath, and around.

  The mild southern breeze brought a shower from the hill,
  And yet, though it left me all dripping and chill,
  I felt a new pleasure, as onward I sped,
  To gaze where the rainbow gleamed broad overhead.

  O such be _life’s_ journey! and such be our skill
  To lose in its blessings the sense of its ill;
  Through sunshine and shower may our progress be even,
  And our tears add a charm to the prospect of heaven.

                        BISHOP HEBER




[Illustration]




MORAL HINTS.

BY L. MARIA CHILD.


Probably there are no two things that tend so much to make human
beings unhappy in themselves and unpleasant to others, as habits
of fretfulness and despondency; two faults peculiarly apt to
grow upon people after they have passed their youth. Both these
ought to be resisted with constant vigilance, as we would resist
a disease. This we should do for our own sakes, and as a duty we
owe to others. Life is made utterly disagreeable when we are daily
obliged to listen to a complaining house-mate. How annoying and
disheartening are such remarks as these: “I was not invited to the
party last night. I suppose I am getting to be of no consequence
to anybody now.” “Yes, that is a beautiful present you have had
sent you. Nobody sends _me_ presents.” “I am a useless encumbrance
now. I can see that people want me out of their way.” Yet such
observations are not unfrequently heard from persons surrounded
by external comforts, and who are consequently envied by others of
similar disposition in less favorable circumstances.

No virtue has been so much recommended to the old as cheerfulness.
Colton says: “Cheerfulness ought to be the viaticum of their life
to the old. Age without cheerfulness is a Lapland winter without a
sun.”

Montaigne says: “The most manifest sign of wisdom is continued
cheerfulness.”

Dr. Johnson says: “The habit of looking on the best side of every
event is worth more than a thousand pounds a year.”

Tucker says: “The point of aim for our vigilance to hold in view is
to dwell upon the brightest parts in every prospect; to call off
the thoughts when running upon disagreeable objects, and strive to
be pleased with the present circumstances surrounding us.”

Southey says, in one of his letters: “I have told you of the
Spaniard, who always put on his spectacles when about to eat
cherries, that they might look bigger and more tempting. In like
manner, I make the most of my enjoyments; and though I do not cast
my eyes away from my troubles, I pack them in as little compass as
I can for myself, and never let them annoy others.”

Perhaps you will say: “All this is very fine talk for people who
are naturally cheerful. But I am low-spirited by temperament; and
how is that to be helped?” In the first place, it would be well to
ascertain whether what you call being naturally low-spirited does
not arise from the infringement of some physical law; something
wrong in what you eat or drink, or something unhealthy in other
personal habits. But if you inherit a tendency to look on the
dark side of things, resolutely call in the aid of your reason to
counteract it. Leigh Hunt says: “If you are melancholy for the
first time, you will find, upon a little inquiry, that others have
been melancholy many times, and yet are cheerful now. If you have
been melancholy many times, recollect that you have got over all
those times; and try if you cannot find means of getting over them
better.”

If reason will not afford sufficient help, call in the aid of
conscience. In this world of sorrow and disappointment, every human
being has trouble enough of his own. It is unkind to add the weight
of your despondency to the burdens of another, who, if you knew all
his secrets, you might find had a heavier load than yours to carry.
You find yourself refreshed by the presence of cheerful people. Why
not make earnest efforts to confer that pleasure on others? You
will find half the battle is gained, if you never allow yourself to
_say_ anything gloomy. If you habitually try to pack your troubles
away out of other people’s sight, you will be in a fair way to
forget them yourself; first, because evils become exaggerated to
the imagination by repetition; and, secondly, because an effort
made for the happiness of others lifts us above ourselves.

Those who are conscious of a tendency to dejection should also
increase as much as possible the circle of simple and healthy
enjoyments. They should cultivate music and flowers, take walks
to look at beautiful sunsets, read entertaining books, and avail
themselves of any agreeable social intercourse within their reach.
They should also endeavor to surround themselves with pleasant
external objects.

Our states of feeling, and even our characters, are influenced by
the things we habitually look upon or listen to. A sweet singer in
a household, or a musical instrument played with feeling, do more
than afford us mere sensuous pleasure; they help us morally, by
their tendency to harmonize discordant moods. Pictures of pleasant
scenes, or innocent objects, are, for similar reasons, desirable
in the rooms we inhabit. Even the paper on the walls may help
somewhat to drive away “blue devils,” if ornamented with graceful
patterns, that light up cheerfully. The paper on the parlor of
Linnæus represented beautiful flowering plants from the East and
West Indies; and on the walls of his bedroom were delineated a
great variety of butterflies, dragon-flies, and other brilliant
insects. Doubtless it contributed not a little to the happiness
of the great naturalist thus to live in the midst of his pictured
thoughts. To cultivate flowers, to arrange them in pretty vases,
to observe their beauties of form and color, has a healthy effect,
both on mind and body. Some temperaments are more susceptible than
others to these fine influences, but they are not entirely without
effect on any human soul; and forms of beauty can now be obtained
with so little expenditure of money, that few need to be entirely
destitute of them.

Perhaps you will say, “If I feel low-spirited, even if I do not
speak of it, I cannot help showing it.” The best way to avoid
the intrusion of sad feelings is to immerse yourself in some
occupation. Adam Clarke said: “I have lived to know that the secret
of happiness is never to allow your energies to stagnate.” If you
are so unfortunate as to have nothing to do at home, then, the
moment you begin to feel a tendency to depression, start forth for
the homes of others. Tidy up the room of some helpless person, who
has nobody to wait upon her; carry flowers to some invalid, or read
to some lonely old body. If you are a man, saw and split wood for
some poor widow, or lone woman, in the neighborhood. If you are a
woman, knit stockings for poor children, or mend caps for those
whose eyesight is failing; and when you have done them, don’t send
them home, but take them yourself. Merely to have every hour of
life fully occupied is a great blessing; but the full benefit of
constant employment cannot be experienced unless we are occupied
in a way that promotes the good of others, while it exercises our
own bodies and employs our own minds. Plato went so far as to call
exercise a cure for a wounded conscience; and, provided usefulness
is combined with it, there is certainly a good deal of truth in the
assertion; inasmuch as constant helpful activity leaves the mind
no leisure to brood over useless regrets, and by thus covering the
wound from the corrosion of thought, helps it to become a scar.

Against that listless indifference, which the French call _ennui_,
industry is even a better preservative than it is against vain
regrets. Therefore, it seems to me unwise for people in the decline
of life to quit entirely their customary occupations and pursuits.
The happiest specimens of old age are those men and women who have
been busy to the last; and there can be no doubt that the decay
of our powers, both bodily and mental, is much hindered by their
constant exercise, provided it be not excessive.

It is recorded of Michael Angelo, that “after he was sixty years
old, though not very robust, he would cut away as many scales from
a block of very hard marble, in a quarter of an hour, as three
young sculptors would have effected in three or four hours. Such
was the impetuosity and fire with which he pursued his labors,
that with a single stroke he brought down fragments three or four
fingers thick, and so close upon his mark, that had he passed it,
even in the slightest degree, there would have been danger of
ruining the whole.” From the time he was seventy-one years old
till he was seventy-five, he was employed in painting the Pauline
Chapel. It was done in fresco, which is exceedingly laborious, and
he confessed that it fatigued him greatly. He was seventy-three
years old when he was appointed architect of the wonderful church
of St. Peter’s, at Rome; upon which he expended the vast powers
of his mind during seventeen years. He persisted in refusing
compensation, and labored solely for the honor of his country and
his church. In his eighty-seventh year, some envious detractors
raised a report that he had fallen into dotage; but he triumphantly
refuted the charge, by producing a very beautiful model of St.
Peter’s, planned by his own mind, and in a great measure executed
by his own hand. He was eighty-three, when his faithful old servant
Urbino, who had lived with him twenty-six years, sickened and died.
Michael Angelo, notwithstanding his great age, and the arduous
labors of superintending the mighty structure of St. Peter’s, and
planning new fortifications for Rome, undertook the charge of
nursing him. He even watched over him through the night; sleeping
by his side, without undressing. This remarkable man lived ninety
years, lacking a fortnight. He wrote many beautiful sonnets during
his last years, and continued to make drawings, plans, and models,
to the day of his death, though infirmities increased upon him, and
his memory failed.

Handel lived to be seventy-five years old, and though afflicted
with blindness in his last years, he continued to produce oratorios
and anthems. He superintended music in the orchestra only a week
before he died. Haydn was sixty-five years old, when he composed
his oratorio of The Creation, the music of which is as bright as
the morning sunshine. When he was seventy-seven years old, he went
to a great concert to hear it performed. It affected him deeply
to have his old inspirations thus recalled to mind. When they
came to the passage, “It was light!” he was so overpowered by
the harmonies, that he burst into tears, and, pointing upwards,
exclaimed: “Not from _me_! Not from _me_! but _thence_ did all this
come!”

Linnæus was past sixty-two years old when he built a museum at his
country-seat, where he classified and arranged a great number of
plants, zoöphytes, shells, insects, and minerals. Besides this, he
superintended the Royal Gardens, zealously pursued his scientific
researches, corresponded by letter with many learned men, taught
pupils, and lectured constantly in the Academic Gardens. His
pupils travelled to all parts of the world, and sent him new
plants and minerals to examine and classify. In the midst of this
constant occupation, he wrote: “I tell the truth when I say that
I am happier than the King of Persia. My pupils send me treasures
from the East and the West; treasures more precious to me than
Babylonish garments or Chinese vases. Here in the Academic Gardens
is my Elysium. Here I learn and teach; here I admire, and point out
to others, the wisdom of the Great Artificer, manifested in the
structure of His wondrous works.” It is said that even when he was
quite ill, the arrival of an unknown plant would infuse new life
into him. He continued to labor with unremitting diligence till he
was sixty-seven years old, when a fit of apoplexy attacked him in
the midst of a public lecture, and so far impaired his memory that
he became unable to teach.

The celebrated Alexander von Humboldt lived ninety years, and
continued to pursue his scientific researches and to publish
learned books up to the very year of his departure from this world.

The Rev. John Wesley continued to preach and write till his body
was fairly worn out. Southey, his biographer, says: “When you met
him in the street of a crowded city, he attracted notice, not only
by his band and cassock, and his long hair, white and bright as
silver, but by his pace and manner, both indicating that all his
minutes were numbered, and that not one was to be lost.” Wesley
himself wrote: “Though I am always in haste, I am never in a hurry;
because I never undertake more work than I can go through with
perfect calmness of spirit.” Upon completing his eighty-second
year, he wrote: “It is now eleven years since I have felt any such
thing as weariness. Many times I speak till my voice fails me, and
I can speak no longer. Frequently I walk till my strength fails,
and I can walk no farther. Yet even then I feel no sensation of
weariness, but am perfectly easy from head to foot. I dare not
impute this to natural causes. It is the will of God.” A year
later, he wrote: “I am a wonder to myself. Such is the goodness
of God, that I am never tired, either with writing, preaching, or
travelling.”

Isaac T. Hopper, who lived to be past eighty, was actively employed
in helping fugitive slaves, and travelling about to exercise a
kindly and beneficent influence in prisons, until a very short time
before his death. When he was compelled to take to his bed, he said
to me: “I am ready and willing to go, only there is so much that I
want to do.”

Some will say it is not in their power to do such things as these
men did. That may be. But there is something that everybody can do.
Those whose early habits render it difficult, or impossible, to
learn a new science, or a new language, in the afternoon of life,
can at least oil the hinges of memory by learning hymns, chapters,
ballads, and stories, wherewith to console and amuse themselves
and others. A stock of nursery rhymes to amuse little children is
far from being a foolish or worthless acquisition, since it enables
one to impart delight to the little souls,

  “With their wonder so intense,
  And their small experience.”

Women undoubtedly have the advantage of men, in those in-door
occupations best suited to the infirm; for there is no end to the
shoes that may be knit for the babies of relatives, the tidies that
may be crocheted for the parlors of friends, and the socks that
may be knit for the poor. But men also can find employment for
tedious hours, when the period of youthful activity has passed.
In summer, gardening is a never-failing resource both to men and
women; and genial qualities of character are developed by imparting
to others the flowers, fruit, and vegetables we have had the
pleasure of raising. The Rev. Dr. Prince of Salem was always busy,
in his old age, making telescopes, kaleidoscopes, and a variety
of toys for scientific illustrations, with which he instructed
and entertained the young people who visited him. My old father
amused himself, and benefited others, by making bird-houses for
children, and clothes-horses and towel-stands for all the girls
of his acquaintance who were going to housekeeping. I knew an
old blind man, who passed his winter evenings pleasantly weaving
mats from corn-husks, while another old man read to him. A lathe
is a valuable resource for elderly people; and this employment
for mind and hands may also exercise the moral qualities, as it
admits of affording pleasure to family and friends by innumerable
neatly-turned little articles. The value of occupation is threefold
to elderly people, if usefulness is combined with exercise; for in
that way the machinery of body, mind, and heart may all be kept
from rusting.

A sister of the celebrated John Wilkes, a wise and kindly old lady,
who resided in Boston a very long time ago, was accustomed to say,
“The true secret of happiness is always to have a little less time
than one wants, and a little more money than one needs.” There is
much wisdom in the saying, but I think it might be improved by
adding, that the money should be of one’s own earning.

After life has passed its maturity, great care should be taken
not to become indifferent to the affairs of the world. It is
salutary, both for mind and heart, to take an interest in some of
the great questions of the age; whether it be slavery or war, or
intemperance, or the elevation of women, or righting the wrongs of
the Indians, or the progress of education, or the regulation of
prisons, or improvements in architecture, or investigation into
the natural sciences, from which proceed results so important
to the daily comfort and occupations of mankind. It is for each
one to choose his object of especial interest; but it should be
remembered that no person has a right to be entirely indifferent
concerning questions involving great moral principles. Care should
be taken that the daily social influence which every man and woman
exerts, more or less, should be employed in the right direction.
A conscientious man feels himself in some degree responsible for
the evil he does not seek to prevent. In the Rev. John Wesley’s
journal for self-examination this suggestive question occurs:
“Have I embraced every probable opportunity of doing good, and
of preventing, removing, or lessening evil?” Such habits of mind
tend greatly to the improvement of our own characters, while at
the same time they may help to improve the character and condition
of others. Nothing is more healthy for the soul than to go out
of ourselves, and stay out of ourselves. We thus avoid brooding
over our own bodily pains, our mental deficiencies, or past moral
shortcomings; we forget to notice whether others neglect us,
or not; whether they duly appreciate us, or not; whether their
advantages are superior to ours, or not. He who leads a true,
active, and useful life has no time for such corrosive thoughts.
All self-consciousness indicates disease. We never think about
our stomachs till we have dyspepsia. The moral diseases which
induce self-consciousness are worse than the physical, both in
their origin and their results. To indulge in repinings over our
own deficiencies, compared with others, while it indicates the
baneful presence of envy, prevents our making the best use of such
endowments as we have. If we are conscious of our merits, bodily or
mental, it takes away half their value. There is selfishness even
in anxiety whether we shall go to heaven or not, or whether our
souls are immortal or not. A continual _preparation_ for eternal
progress is the wisest and the happiest way to live _here_. If we
daily strive to make ourselves fit companions for angels, we shall
be in constant readiness for a better world, while we make sure of
enjoying some degree of heaven upon this earth; and, what is still
better, of helping to make it a paradise for others.

Perhaps there is no error of human nature productive of so much
unhappiness as the indulgence of temper. Often everything in a
household is made to go wrong through the entire day, because one
member of the family rises in a fretful mood. An outburst of anger
brings a cloud of gloom over the domestic atmosphere, which is
not easily dissipated. Strenuous efforts should be made to guard
against this, especially by the old; who, as they lose external
attractions, should strive all the more earnestly to attain that
internal beauty which is of infinitely more value. And here, again,
the question may be asked, “What am I to do, if I have naturally
a hasty or fretful temper, and if those around me act in a manner
to provoke it?” In the first place, strong self-constraint may be
made to become a habit; and this, though very difficult in many
cases, is possible to all. People of the most ungoverned tempers
will often become suddenly calm and courteous when a stranger
enters; and they can control their habitual outbreaks, when they
are before people whose good opinion they are particularly desirous
to obtain or preserve. Constraint may be made more easy by leaving
the presence of those with whom you are tempted to jangle. Go out
into the open air; feed animals; gather flowers or fruit for the
very person you were tempted to annoy. By thus opening a door for
devils to walk out of your soul, angels will be sure to walk in.
If circumstances prevent your doing anything of this kind, you
can retire to your own chamber for a while, and there wrestle for
victory over your evil mood. If necessary avocations render this
impossible, time can at least be snatched for a brief and earnest
prayer for help in overcoming your besetting sin; and prayer is a
golden gate, through which angels are wont to enter.

  “And the lady prayed in heaviness,
    That looked not for relief;
  But slowly did her succor come,
    And a patience to her grief.

  “O, there is never sorrow of heart
    That shall lack a timely end,
  If but to God we turn and ask
    Of Him to be our friend.”

There is a reason for governing our tempers which is still more
important than our own happiness, or even the happiness of others.
I allude to its influence on the characters of those around us;
an influence which may mar their whole destiny here, and perhaps
hinder their progress hereafter. None of us are sufficiently
careful to keep pure and wholesome the spiritual atmosphere which
surrounds every human being, and which must be more or less inhaled
by the spiritual lungs of all those with whom he enters into the
various relations of life. Jean Paul said: “Newton, who uncovered
his head whenever the name of God was pronounced, thus became,
without words, a teacher of religion to children.” Many a girl has
formed an injudicious marriage, in consequence of hearing sneering
remarks, or vulgar jokes, about “old maids.” Poisonous prejudices
against nations, races, sects, and classes are often instilled by
thoughtless incidental expressions. There is education for evil
in the very words “Nigger,” “Paddy,” “old Jew,” “old maid,” &c.
It is recorded of the Rabbi Sera, that when he was asked how he
had attained to such a serene and lovable old age, he replied: “I
have never rejoiced at any evil which happened to my neighbor; and
I never called any man by a nickname given to him in derision or
sport.”

False ideas with regard to the importance of wealth and rank are
very generally, though often unconsciously inculcated by modes of
speech, or habits of action. To treat _mere_ wealth with more
respect than honest poverty; to speak more deferentially of a man
whose _only_ claim is a distinguished ancestry, than you do of
the faithful laborer who ditches your meadows, is a slow but sure
process of education, which sermons and catechisms will never be
able entirely to undo. It is important to realize fully that all
merely conventional distinctions are false and illusory; that
only worth and usefulness can really ennoble man or woman. If we
look at the subject from a rational point of view, the artificial
classifications of society appear even in a ludicrous light. It
would be considered a shocking violation of etiquette for the
baronet’s lady to call upon the queen. The wife of the wealthy
banker, or merchant, cannot be admitted to the baronet’s social
circle. The intelligent mechanic and prosperous farmer is excluded
from the merchant’s parlor. The farmer and mechanic would think
they let themselves down by inviting a worthy day-laborer to
their parties. And the day-laborer, though he were an ignoramus
and a drunkard, would feel authorized to treat with contempt any
intelligent and excellent man whose complexion happened to be
black or brown. I once knew a grocer’s wife, who, with infinite
condescension of manner, said to the wife of her neighbor the
cobbler, “Why don’t you come in to see me sometimes? You needn’t
keep away because my house is carpeted all over.” Hannah More
tells us that the Duchess of Gloucester, wishing to circulate some
tracts and verses, requested one of her ladies in waiting to stop
a woman who was wheeling a barrow of oranges past the window,
and ask her if she would take some ballads to sell. “No indeed!”
replied the orange-woman, with an air of offended dignity. “I
don’t do anything so mean as that. I don’t even sell apples.” The
Duchess was much amused by her ideas of rank; but they were in fact
no more absurd than her own. It is the same mean, selfish spirit
which manifests itself through all these gradations. External rank
belongs to the “phantom dynasties”; and if we wish our children to
enjoy sound moral health, we should be careful not to teach any
deference for it, either in our words or our habits. Mrs. Gaskell,
in her sketch of a very conservative and prejudiced English
gentlewoman, “one of the olden time,” gives a lovely touch to the
picture, indicating that true natural refinement was not stifled by
the prejudices of rank. Lady Ludlow had, with patronizing kindness,
invited several of her social inferiors to tea. Among them was the
wife of a rich baker, who, being unaccustomed to the etiquette
of such company, spread a silk handkerchief in her lap, when she
took a piece of cake; whereupon some of the curate’s wives began
to titter, in order to show that they knew polite manners better
than she did. Lady Ludlow, perceiving this, immediately spread
her own handkerchief in her lap; and when the baker’s wife went to
the fireplace to shake out her crumbs, my lady did the same. This
silent rebuke was sufficient to prevent any further rudeness to the
unsophisticated wife of the baker. No elaborate rules are necessary
to teach us true natural politeness. We need only remember two
short texts of Scripture: “Do unto others as ye would that they
should do unto you.” “God is your Father, and all ye are brethren.”

Elderly people are apt to think that their years exempt them from
paying so much attention to good manners as the young are required
to do. On the contrary, they ought to be more careful in their
deportment and conversation, because their influence is greater.
Impure words or stories repeated by parents or grandparents may
make indelible stains on the minds of their descendants, and
perhaps give a sensual direction to their characters through life.
No story, however funny, should ever be told, if it will leave in
the memory unclean associations, either physically or morally.

A love of gossiping about other people’s affairs is apt to grow
upon those who have retired from the active pursuits of life; and
this is one among many reasons why it is best to keep constantly
occupied. A great deal of trouble is made in neighborhoods, from no
malicious motives, but from the mere excitement of telling news,
and the temporary importance derived therefrom. Most village
gossip, when sifted down, amounts to the little school-girl’s
definition. Being asked what it was to bear false witness against
thy neighbor, she replied: “It’s when nobody don’t do nothing, and
somebody goes and tells of it.” One of the best and most genial
of the Boston merchants, when he heard people discussing themes
of scandal, was accustomed to interrupt them, by saying: “Don’t
talk any more about it! Perhaps they didn’t do it; and may be they
couldn’t help it.” For myself, I deem it the greatest unkindness
to be told of anything said against me. I may prevent its exciting
resentment in my mind; but the consciousness of not being liked
unavoidably disturbs my relations with the person implicated. There
is no better safeguard against the injurious habit of gossiping,
than the being interested in _principles_ and _occupations_; if you
have these to employ your mind, you will have no inclination to
talk about matters merely personal.

When we reflect that life is so full of neglected little
opportunities to improve ourselves and others, we shall feel that
there is no need of aspiring after great occasions to do good.

  “The _trivial_ round, the _common_ task,
  Would furnish all we need to ask;
  Room to deny ourselves,--a road
  To bring us daily nearer God.”




[Illustration]




THE BOYS.

WRITTEN FOR A MEETING OF COLLEGE CLASSMATES.

BY OLIVER W. HOLMES.


  Has there any _old_ fellow got mixed with the boys?
  If there has, take him out, without making a noise!
  Hang the Almanac’s cheat, and the Catalogue’s spite!
  Old Time is a liar! We’re twenty to-night.

  We’re twenty! We’re twenty! Who says we are more?
  He’s tipsy, young jackanapes! Show him the door!
  “Gray temples at twenty?” Yes! _white_, if we please;
  Where the snow-flakes fall thickest, there’s nothing can freeze.

  Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake!
  Look close,--you will see not a sign of a flake;
  We want some new garlands for those we have shed,--
  And these are white roses in place of the red.

  We’ve a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told,
  Of talking (in public) as if we were old;--
  That boy we call “Doctor,” and this we call “Judge”;--
  It’s a neat little fiction,--of course, it’s all fudge.

  That fellow’s “the Speaker,”--the one on the right;
  “Mr. Mayor,” my young one, how are you to-night?
  That’s our “Member of Congress,” we say when we chaff;
  There’s the “Reverend” What’s his name? Don’t make me laugh!

         *       *       *       *       *

  Yes, we’re boys,--always playing with tongue or with pen,--
  And I sometimes have asked, Shall we ever be men?
  Shall we always be youthful, and laughing and gay,
  Till the last dear companion drops smiling away?

  Then here’s to our boyhood, its gold and its gray!
  The stars of its Winter, the dews of its May!
  And when we have done with our life-lasting toys,
  Dear Father, take care of thy children, the Boys!




ODE OF ANACREON.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK.


  I love a mellow, cheerful sage,
  Whose feelings are unchilled by age;
  I love a youth who dances well
  To music of the sounding shell;
  But when a man of years, like me,
  Joins with the dancers playfully,
  Though age in silvery hair appears,
  His heart is young, despite of years.




[Illustration]




MYSTERIOUSNESS OF LIFE.

FROM MOUNTFORD’S EUTHANASY.


About the world to come, it ought not to be as though we did not
know _surely_, because we do not know _much_. From the nearest
star, our earth, if it is seen, looks hardly anything at all. It
shines, or rather it twinkles, and that is all. To them afar off,
this earth is only a shining point. But to us who live in it,
it is wide and various. It is sea and land; it is Europe, Asia,
Africa, and America; it is the lair of the lion, and the pasture
of the ox, and the pathway of the worm, and the support of the
robin; it is what has day and night in it; it is what customs and
languages obtain in; it is many countries; it is the habitation
of a thousand million men; and it is our home. All this the world
is to _us_; though, looked at from one of the stars, it is only a
something that twinkles in the distance. It is seen only as a few
intermittent rays of light; though, to us who live in it, it is
hill and valley, and land and water, and many thousands of miles
wide. So that if the future world is a star of guidance for us, it
is enough; because it is not for us to _know_, but to _believe_,
that it will prove our dear home.

       *       *       *       *       *

We live mortal lives for immortal good. And really this world is
so mysterious, that there is not one of its commonest ways but is
perhaps sublimer to walk on than we at all think. At night, when we
walk about and see at all, it is by the light of _other_ worlds;
though we do not often think of this. It is the same in life. There
is many a matter concerning us that is little thought of, but which
is ours, as it were, from out of the infinite. Yes, our lives are
to be felt as being very great, even in their nothingness. Even our
mortal lives are as wonderful as immortality. Is the next life a
mystery? So it is. But then how mysterious even _now_ life is. Food
is not all that a man lives by. There is some way by which food has
to turn to strength in him; and that way is something else than his
own will. I am hungry, I sit down to a meal, and I enjoy it. And
the next day, from what I ate and drank for my pleasure, there is
blood in my veins, and moisture on my skin, and new flesh making
in all my limbs. And this is not my doing or willing; for I do not
even know how my nails grow from under the skin of my fingers. I
can well believe in my being to live hereafter. _How_, indeed, I
am to live, I do not know; but, then, neither do I know how I do
live _now_. When I am asleep, my lungs keep breathing, my heart
keeps beating, my stomach keeps digesting, and my whole body keeps
making anew. And in the morning, when I look in the glass, it is as
though I see myself a new creature; and really, for the wonder of it,
it is all the same as though another body had grown about me in my
          sleep. This living from day to day is astonishing,
              when it is thought of; and we are let feel
                 the miracle of it, so, perhaps, that
                    our being to live again may not
                         be too wonderful for
                              our belief.

[Illustration]

    Though there be storm and turbulence on this earth, one would
    rise but little way, through the blackened air, before he would
    come to a region of calm and peace, where the stars shine
    unobstructed, and where there is no storm. And a little above
    our cloud, a little higher than our darkness, a little beyond
    our storm, is God’s upper region of tranquil peace and calm.
    And when we have had the discipline of winter here, it will be
    possible for us to have eternal summer there.

                                                 HENRY WARD BEECHER.




[Illustration]




EXTRACTS FROM

THE GRANDMOTHER’S APOLOGY.

BY ALFRED TENNYSON.


  And Willy, my eldest born, is gone you say, little Ann?
  Ruddy and white and strong on his legs, he looks like a man.
  “Here’s a leg for a babe of a week!” says doctor; and he would be bound
  There was not his like that year in twenty parishes round.

  Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of his tongue!
  I ought to have gone before him; I wonder he went so young.
  I cannot cry for him, Annie; I have not long to stay;
  Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far away.

  Why do you look at me, Annie? you think I am hard and cold;
  But all my children have gone before me, I am so old:
  I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest;
  Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best.

  The first child that ever I bore was dead before he was born:
  Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn.
  I had not wept, little Annie, not since I had been a wife;
  But I wept like a child, that day; for the babe had fought for his life.

  His dear little face was troubled, as if with anger or pain;
  I looked at the still little body,--his trouble had all been in vain.
  For Willy I cannot weep; I shall see him another morn;
  But I wept like a child for the child that was dead before he was born.

  But he cheered me, my good man, for he seldom said me nay:
  Kind, like a man, was he; like a man, too, would have his way;
  Never jealous,--not he: we had many a happy year:
  And he died, and I could not weep,--my own time seemed so near.

  But I wished it had been God’s will that I, too, then could have died:
  I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at his side;
  And that was ten years back, or more, if I don’t forget:
  But as for the children, Annie, they are all about me yet.

  Pattering over the boards, my Annie, who left me at two;
  Patter she goes, my own little Annie,--an Annie like you.
  Pattering over the boards, she comes and goes at her will,
  While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing the hill.

  And Harry and Charlie, I hear them, too,--they sing to their team;
  Often they come to the door in a pleasant kind of dream.
  They come and sit by my chair, they hover about my bed:
  I am not always certain if they be alive or dead.

  And yet I know for a truth, there’s none of them left alive;
  For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty-five;
  And Willy, my eldest born, at nigh threescore and ten;
  I knew them all as babies, and now they are elderly men.

  For mine is a time of peace; it is not often I grieve;
  I am oftener sitting at home in my father’s farm at eve:
  And the neighbors come and laugh and gossip, and so do I;
  I find myself often laughing at things that have long gone by.

  To be sure the preacher says our sins should make us sad;
  But mine is a time of peace, and there is grace to be had;
  And God, not man, is the Judge of us all when life shall cease;
  And in this Book, little Annie, the message is one of peace.

  And age is a time of peace, so it be free from pain;
  And happy has been my life, but I would not live it again.
  I seem to be tired a little, that’s all, and long for rest;
  Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best.

  So Willy has gone,--my beauty, my eldest born, my flower;
  But how can I weep for Willy? he has but gone for an hour,--
  Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the next;
  I too shall go in a minute. What time have I to be vext?




[Illustration]




THE ANCIENT MAN.

    TRANSLATED BY L. O. FROM THE GERMAN OF JEAN PAUL RICHTER’S
    MEMOIR OF FIBEL, AUTHOR OF THE BIENENRODA SPELLING-BOOK.

          “He is insensibly subdued
  To settled quiet. He is one by whom
  All effort seems forgotten; one to whom
  Long patience hath such mild composure given,
  That patience now doth seem a thing of which
  He hath no need. He is by Nature led
  To peace so perfect, that the young behold
  With envy what the old man hardly feels.”

                        WORDSWORTH.


The stream of Fibel’s history having vanished under ground, like a
second river Rhone, I was obliged to explore where story or stream
again burst forth, and for this purpose I questioned every one. I
was told that no one could better inform me than an exceedingly
aged man, more than a hundred and twenty-five years old, who lived
a few miles from the village of Bienenroda, and who, having been
young at the same time with Fibel, must know all about him. The
prospect of shaking hands with the very oldest man living on the
face of the earth enraptured me. I said to myself that a most
novel and peculiar sensation must be excited by having a whole
past century before you, bodily present, compact and alive, in the
century now passing; by holding, hand to hand, a man of the age
of the antediluvians, over whose head so many entire generations
of young mornings and old evenings have fled, and before whom one
stands, in fact, as neither young nor old; to listen to a human
spirit, outlandish, behind the time, almost mysteriously awful;
sole survivor of the thousand gray, cold sleepers, coevals of his
own remote, hoary age; standing as sentinel before the ancient
dead, looking coldly and strangely on life’s silly novelties;
finding in the present no cooling for his inborn spirit-thirst,
no more enchanting yesterdays or to-morrows, but only the
day-before-yesterday of youth, and the day-after-to-morrow of
death. It may consequently be imagined that so very old a man would
speak only of his _farthest_ past, of his early day-dawn, which,
of course, in the long evening of his protracted day, must now be
blending with his midnight. On the other hand, that one like myself
would not feel particularly younger before such a millionnaire of
hours, as the Bienenroda Patriarch must be; and that his presence
must make one feel more conscious of death than of immortality.
A very aged man is a more powerful memento than a grave; for
the older a grave is, the farther we look back to the succession
of young persons who have mouldered in it; sometimes a maiden is
concealed in an ancient grave; but an ancient dwindled body hides
only an imprisoned spirit.

An opportunity for visiting the Patriarch was presented by a return
coach-and-six, belonging to a count, on which I was admitted to
a seat with the coachman. Just before arriving at Bienenroda, he
pointed with his whip toward an orchard, tuneful with song, and
said, “There sits the old man with his little animals around him.”
I sprang from the noble equipage and went toward him. I ventured to
expect that the Count’s six horses would give me, before the old
man, the appearance of a person of rank, apart from the simplicity
of my dress, whereby princes and heroes are wont to distinguish
themselves from their tinselled lackeys. I was, therefore, a little
surprised that the old man kept on playing with his pet hare, not
even checking the barking of his poodle, as if counts were his
daily bread, until, at last, he lifted his oil-cloth hat from his
head. A buttoned overcoat, which gave room to see his vest, a long
pair of knit over-alls, which were, in fact, enormous stockings,
and a neckerchief, which hung down to his bosom, made his dress
look modern enough. His time-worn frame was far more peculiar. The
inner part of the eye, which is black in childhood, was quite
white; his tallness, more than his years, seemed to bow him over
into an arch; the out-turned point of his chin gave to his speech
the appearance of mumbling; yet the expression of his countenance
was lively, his eyes bright, his jaws full of white teeth, and his
head covered with light hair.

I began by saying: “I came here solely on your account to see a man
for whom there can assuredly be little new under the sun, though
he himself is something very new under it. You are now strictly
in your five and twenties; a man in your best years; since after
a century a _new_ reckoning commences. For myself, I confess that
after once clambering over the century terminus, or church-wall of
a hundred years, I should neither know how old I was, nor whether
I was myself. I should begin fresh and free, just as the world’s
history has often done, counting again from the year one, in the
middle of a thousand years. Yet why can not a man live to be as
old as is many a giant tree of India still standing? It is well to
question very old people concerning the methods by which they have
prolonged their lives. How do you account for it, dear old sir?”

I was beginning to be vexed at the good man’s silence, when he
softly replied: “Some suppose it is because I have always been
cheerful; because I have adopted the maxim, ‘Never sad, ever glad’;
but I ascribe it wholly to our dear Lord God; since the animals,
which here surround us, though never sad, but happy for the most
part, by no means so frequently exceed the usual boundary of their
life, as does man. He exhibits an image of the eternal God, even in
the length of his duration.”

Such words concerning God, uttered by a tongue one hundred and
twenty-five years old, had great weight and consolation; and I at
once felt their beautiful attraction. On mentioning animals, the
old man turned again to his own; and, as though indifferent to him
who had come in a coach-and-six, he began again to play with his
menagerie, the hare, the spaniel, the silky poodle, the starling,
and a couple of turtle-doves on his bosom; a pleasant bee-colony
in the orchard also gave heed to him; with one whistle he sent
the bees away, and with another summoned them into the ring of
creatures, which surrounded him like a court-circle.

At last, he said: “No one need be surprised that a very old man,
who has forgotten everything, and whom no one but the dear God
knows or cares for, should give himself wholly to the dear animals.
To whom can such an old man be of much use? I wander about in the
villages, as in cities, wholly strange. If I see children, they
come before me like my own remote childhood. If I meet old men,
they seem like my past hoary years. I do not quite know where I now
belong. I hang between heaven and earth. Yet God ever looks upon
me bright and lovingly, with his two eyes, the sun and the moon.
Moreover, animals lead into no sin, but rather to devotion. When my
turtle-doves brood over their young and feed them, it seems to me
just as if I saw God himself doing a great deal; for they derive
their love and instinct toward their young, as a gift from him.”

The old man became silent, and looked pensively before him, as was
his wont. A ringing of christening bells sounded from Bienenroda
among the trees in the garden. He wept a little. I know not how
I could have been so simple, after the beautiful words he had
uttered, as to have mistaken his tears for a sign of weakness in
his eyes. “I do not hear well, on account of my great age,” said
he; “and it seems to me as if the baptismal bell from the distant
sanctuary sounded up here very faintly. The old years of my
childhood, more than a hundred years ago, ascend from the ancient
depths of time, and gaze on me in wonder, while I and they know
not whether we ought to weep or laugh.” Then, addressing his silky
poodle, he called out, “Ho! ho! come here old fellow!”

The allusion to his childhood brought me to the purpose of my
visit. “Excellent sir,” said I, “I am preparing the biography
of the deceased Master Gotthelf Fibel, author of the famous
Spelling-Book; and all I now need to complete it is the account of
his death.” The old man smiled, and made a low bow. I continued,
“No one is more likely to know the particulars of his decease than
yourself; and you are the only person who can enrich me with the
rare traits of his childhood; because every incident inscribed on a
child’s brain grows deeper with years, like names cut into a gourd,
while later inscriptions disappear. Tell me, I pray you, all that
you know concerning the departed man; for I am to publish his Life
at the Michaelmas Fair.”

He murmured, “Excellent genius; scholar; man of letters; author
most famous; these and other fine titles I learned by heart and
applied to myself, while I was that vain, blinded Fibel, who wrote
and published the ordinary Spelling-Book in question.”

So then, this old man was the blessed Fibel himself! A hundred and
twenty-five notes of admiration, ay, eighteen hundred and eleven
notes in a row, would but feebly express my astonishment.

[Here follows a long conversation concerning Fibel, after which the
narrative continues as follows:--]

The old man went into his little garden-house, and I followed
him. He whistled, and instantly his black squirrel came down from
a tree, whither it had gone more for pleasure than for food.
Nightingales, thrushes, starlings, and other birds, flew back into
the open window from the tops of the trees. A bulfinch, whose color
had been changed by age from red to black, strutted about the
room, uttering droll sounds, which it could not make distinct. The
hare pattered about in the twilight, sometimes on his hind feet,
sometimes on all fours. Every dog in the house bounded forward
in glad, loving, human glee. But the most joyful of all was the
poodle; for he knew he was to have a box with compartments fastened
to his neck, containing a list of the articles wanted for supper,
which it was his business to bring from the inn in Bienenroda. He
was Fibel’s victualler, or provision-wagon. Children, who ran back
and forth, were the only other ones who ministered to his wants.

In allusion to his pets, he said: “We ought to assist the
circumscribed faculties of animals, by educating them, as far as
we can, since we stand toward them, in a certain degree, as their
Lord God; and we ought to train them to good morals, too; for very
possibly they may continue to live after death. God and the animals
are always good; but not so with man.”

Aged men impart spiritual things, as they give material things,
with a shaking hand, which drops half. In the effort to gather up
his recollections, he permitted me to quicken his memory with my
own; and thus I obtained a connected account of some particulars in
his experience. He said he might have been about a hundred years
old, when he cut a new set of teeth, the pain of which disturbed
him with wild dreams. One night he seemed to be holding in his
hands a large sieve, and it was his task to pull the meshes apart,
one by one. The close net-work, and the fastening to the wooden
rim, gave him indescribable trouble. But as his dream went on,
he seemed to hold in his hand the great bright sun, which flamed
up into his face. He woke with a new-born feeling, and slumbered
again, as if on waving tulips. He dreamed again that he was a
hundred years old, and that he died as an innocent yearling child,
without any of the sin or woe of earth; that he found his parents
on high, who brought before him a long procession of his children,
who had remained invisible to him while he was in this world,
because they were transparent, like the angels. He rose from his
bed with new teeth and new ideas. The old Fibel was consumed, and a
true Phœnix stood in his place, sunning its colored wings. He had
risen glorified out of no other grave than his own body. The world
retreated; heaven came down.

When he had related these things, he at once bade me good night.
Without waiting for the return of his ministering poodle, and with
hands folded for prayer, he showed me the road. I withdrew, but I
rambled a long time round the orchard, which had sprung entirely
from seed of his own planting. Indeed he seldom ate a cherry
without smuggling the stone and burying it in the ground for a
resurrection. This habit often annoyed the neighboring peasants,
who did not want high things growing on their boundaries. “But,”
said he, “I cannot destroy a fruit-stone. If the peasants pull up
the tree it produces, it will still have lived a little while, and
die as a child dies.”

While loitering in the orchard, I heard an evening hymn played and
sung. I returned near Fibel’s window, and saw him slowly turning a
hand-organ, and accompanying the tune by softly singing an evening
hymn. This organ, aided by his fragment of a voice, sufficed, in
its monotonous uniformity, for his domestic devotion. I went away
repeating the song.

Beautiful was the orchard when I returned the next morning. And the
hoar-frost of age seemed thawed and fluid, and to glisten only as
morning dew on Fibel’s after-blossom. The affection of his animals
toward him rendered the morning still more beautiful, in an orchard
every tree of which had for its mother the stone of some fruit that
he had enjoyed. His animals were an inheritance from his parents;
though, of course they were the great, great, great grandchildren
of those which had belonged to them. The trees were full of
brooding birds, and by a slight whistle he could lure down to his
shoulders this tame posterity of his father’s singing-school.
It was refreshing to the heart to see how quickly the tender
flutterers surrounded him.

With the infantine satisfaction of a gray-headed child, he was
accustomed to hang up on sticks, or in the trees, wherever the
rays of the sun could best shine upon them, little balls of
colored glass; and he took indescribable delight in this accordion
of silver, gold, and jewel hues. These parti-colored sun-balls,
varying the green with many flaming tints, were like crystal
tulip-beds. Some of the red ones seemed like ripe apples among the
branches. But what charmed the old man most were reflections of
the landscape from these little world-spheres. They resembled the
moving prospects shadowed forth in a diminishing mirror. “Ah,” said
he, “when I contemplate the colors produced by the sunshine, which
God gives to this dark world, it seems to me as if I had departed,
and were already with God. And yet, since He is _in_ us, we are
always with God.”

I asked him how it happened that, at his age, he spoke German
almost purer than that used even by our best writers. Counting his
birth from the end of his century [the new birth described in his
dream], he replied: “I was somewhere about two years old, when I
happened to hear a holy, spiritual minister, who spoke German with
such an angel tongue, that he would not have needed a better in
heaven. I heard him every Sabbath during several years.” He could
not tell me the preacher’s name, but he vividly described his
manner in the pulpit. He told how he spoke with no superfluity of
words, airs, or gestures; how he uttered, in mild tones, things
the most beautiful and forcible; how, like the Apostle John, with
his resting-place close to heaven, this man spoke to the world,
laying his hands calmly on the pulpit-desk, as an arm-case; how
his every tone was a heart, and his every look a blessing; how the
energy of this disciple of Christ was embedded in love, as the firm
diamond is encased in ductile gold; how the pulpit was to him a
Mount Tabor, whereon he transfigured both himself and his hearers;
and how, of all clergymen, he best performed that which is the most
difficult,--the _praying_ worthily.

My feelings grew constantly warmer toward this time-worn man, while
I did not require a full return of affection from him any more than
I should from a little child. But I remembered that I ought not
to disturb the evening of his days with things of the world, and
that I ought to depart. I would have him preserve undisturbed that
sublime position of old age, where man lives, as it were, at the
pole; where no star rises or sets; where the whole firmament is
motionless and clear, while the Pole-Star of another world shines
fixedly overhead. I therefore said to him, that I would return in
the evening, and take my leave. To my surprise, he replied, that
perhaps he should himself take leave of the whole world at evening,
and that he wished not to be disturbed when dying. He said that he
should that evening read to the end of the Revelation of St. John,
and perhaps it might be the end with _him_ also. I ought to have
mentioned previously that he read continually, and read nothing but
the Bible, regularly through from the beginning to the end; and
he had a fixed impression that he should depart on concluding the
twentieth and twenty-first verses of the twenty-second chapter of
the Revelation of John: “He which testifieth of these things saith,
Surely I come quickly: Amen. Even so, come, Lord Jesus. The grace
of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all. Amen.” In consequence of
this belief, he was in the habit of reading the last books of the
Bible faster.

Little as I believed in so sudden a withering of his protracted
after-blossom, I obeyed his latest-formed wish. Whenever a right
wish is expressed by any man, we should do well to remember that
it may be his _last_. I took my leave, requesting him to intrust
me with his testamentary commissions for the village. He said they
had been taken charge of long ago, and the children knew them. He
cut a twig from a Christmas-tree, coeval with his childhood, and
presented me with it as a keepsake.

In the beautiful summer evening, I could not refrain from
stealthily approaching the house, through the orchard, to ascertain
whether the good old man had ended his Bible and his life together.
On the way, I found the torn envelope of a letter sealed with a
black seal, and over me the white storks were speeding their way
to a warmer country. I was not much encouraged when I heard all
the birds singing in his orchard; for their ancestors had done the
same when his father died. A towering cloud, full of the latest
twilight, spread itself before my short-sighted vision, like a
far-off, blooming, foreign landscape; and I could not comprehend
how it was that I had never before noticed this strange-looking,
reddish land; so much the more easily did it occur to me that this
might be his Orient, whither God was leading the weary one. I had
become so confused, as actually to mistake red bean-blossoms for
a bit of fallen sunset. Presently, I heard a man singing to the
accompaniment of an organ. It was the aged man singing his evening
hymn:

  “Lord of my life, another day
  Once more hath sped away.”

The birds in the room, and those on the distant branches also,
chimed in with his song. The bees, too, joined in with their
humming, as in the warm summer evening they dived into the cups of
the linden-blossoms. My joy kindled into a flame. He was alive!
But I would not disturb his holy evening. I would let him remain
with Him who had surrounded him with gifts and with years, and not
call upon him to think of any man here below. I listened to the
last verse of his hymn, that I might be still more certain of the
actual continuance of his life, and then tardily I slipped away. To
my joy, I still found, in the eternal youth of Nature, beautiful
references to his lengthened age; from the everlasting rippling of
the brook in the meadow, to a late swarm of bees, which had settled
themselves on a linden-tree, probably in the forenoon, before two
o’clock, as if, by taking their lodging with him, he was to be
their bee-father, and continue to live. Every star twinkled to me a
hope.

I went to the orchard very early in the morning, wishing to look
upon the aged man in sleep; death’s ancient prelude, the warm
dream of cold death. But he was reading, and had read, in his
large-printed Bible, far beyond the Deluge, as I could see by the
engravings. I held it to be a duty not to interrupt his solitude
long. I told him I was going away, and gave him a little farewell
billet, instead of farewell words. I was much moved, though
silent. It was not the kind of emotion with which we take leave of
a friend, or a youth, or an old man; it was like parting from a
remote stranger-being, who scarcely glances at us from the high,
cold clouds which hold him between the earth and the sun. There
is a stillness of soul which resembles the stillness of bodies
on a frozen sea, or on high mountains; every loud tone is an
interruption too prosaically harsh, as in the softest adagio. Even
those words, “for the last time,” the old man had long since left
behind him. Yet he hastily presented to me my favorite flower, a
blue Spanish vetch, in an earthen pot. This butterfly-flower is the
sweeter, inasmuch as it so easily exhales its perfume and dies. He
said he had not yet sung the usual morning-hymn, which followed
the survival of his death-evening; and he begged me not to take it
amiss that he did not accompany me, or even once look after me,
especially as he could not see very well. He then added, almost
with emotion, “O friend, may you live virtuously! We shall meet
again, where my departed relatives will be present, and also that
great preacher, whose name I have forgotten. We meet again.”

He turned immediately, quite tranquilly, to his organ. I parted
from him, as from a life. He played on his organ beneath the trees,
and his face was turned toward me; but to his dim eyes I knew that
I should soon become as a motionless cloud. So I remained until he
began his morning hymn, from old Neander:

  “The Lord still leaves me living,
    I hasten Him to praise;
  My joyful spirit giving,
    He hears my early lays.”

While he was singing, the birds flew round him; the dogs accustomed
to the music, were silent; and it even wafted the swarm of bees
into their hive. Bowed down as he was by age, his figure was so
tall, that from the distance where I stood he looked sufficiently
erect. I remained until the old man had sung the twelfth and last
verse of his morning hymn:

  “Ready my course to finish,
    And come, O God, to Thee;
  A conscience pure I cherish,
    Till death shall summon me.”

       *       *       *       *       *

    Nothing of God’s making can a man love rightly, without being
    the surer of God’s loving himself; neither the moon, nor the
    stars, nor a rock, nor a tree, nor a flower, nor a bird. Not
    the least grateful of my thanksgivings have been hymns that
    have come to my lips while I have been listening to the birds
    of an evening. Only let us love what God loves, and then His
    love of ourselves will feel certain, and the sight of his face
    we shall be sure of; and immortality, and heaven, and the
    freedom of the universe, will be as easy for us to believe in,
    as a father’s giving good gifts to his children.--MOUNTFORD.




[Illustration]




MILTON’S HYMN OF PATIENCE.

BY ELIZABETH LLOYD HOWELL.


  I am old and blind!
  Men point at me as smitten by God’s frown;
  Afflicted, and deserted of my kind,
          Yet I am not cast down.

          I am weak, yet strong;
  I murmur not, that I no longer see;
  Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong,
          Father supreme! to thee.

          O merciful One!
  When men are farthest, then thou art most near;
  When friends pass by, my weaknesses to shun,
          Thy chariot I hear.

          Thy glorious face
  Is leaning towards me, and its holy light
  Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place;
          And there is no more night.

          On my bended knees,
  I recognize thy purpose, clearly shown;
  My vision thou hast dimmed, that I may see
          Thyself, thyself alone.

          I have naught to fear;
  This darkness is the shadow of thy wing;
  Beneath it I am almost sacred; here
          Can come no evil thing.

          O, I seem to stand
  Trembling, where foot of mortal ne’er hath been;
  Wrapped in the radiance from the sinless land.
          Which eye hath never seen.

          Visions come and go;
  Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng;
  From angel lips I seem to hear the flow
          Of soft and holy song.

          It is nothing now,--
  When heaven is opening on my sightless eyes,
  When airs from paradise refresh my brow,--
          That earth in darkness lies.

          In a purer clime,
  My being fills with rapture! waves of thought
  Roll in upon my spirit! strains sublime
          Break over me unsought.

          Give me now my lyre!
  I feel the stirrings of a gift divine;
  Within my bosom glows unearthly fire,
          Lit by no skill of mine.




[Illustration]




LETTER FROM AN OLD WOMAN, ON HER BIRTHDAY.

BY L. MARIA CHILD.


You ask me, dear friend, whether it does not make me sad to grow
old. I tell you frankly it did make me sad for a while; but that
time has long since past. The _name_ of being old I never dreaded.
I am not aware that there ever was a time when I should have
made the slightest objection to having my age proclaimed by the
town-crier, if people had had any curiosity to know it. But I
suppose every human being sympathizes with the sentiment expressed
by Wordsworth:

  “Life’s Autumn past, I stand on Winter’s verge,
  And daily lose what I desire to keep.”

The first white streaks in my hair, and the spectre of a small
black spider floating before my eyes, foreboding diminished
clearness of vision, certainly did induce melancholy reflections.
At that period, it made me nervous to think about the approaches
of old age; and when young people thoughtlessly reminded me of
it, they cast a shadow over the remainder of the day. It was
mournful as the monotonous rasping of crickets, which tells that
“the year is wearing from its prime.” I dreaded age in the same
way that I always dread the coming of winter; because I want to
keep the light, the warmth, the flowers, and the growth of summer.
But, after all, when winter comes, I soon get used to him, and am
obliged to acknowledge that he is a handsome old fellow, and by no
means destitute of pleasant qualities. And just so it has proved
with old age. Now that it has come upon me, I find it full of
friendly compensations for all that it takes away.

The period of sadness and nervous dread on this subject, which I
suppose to be a very general experience, is of longer or shorter
duration, according to habits previously formed. From observation,
I judge that those whose happiness has mainly depended on balls,
parties, fashionable intercourse, and attentions flattering to
vanity, usually experience a prolonged and querulous sadness, as
years advance upon them; because, in the nature of things, such
enjoyments pass out of the reach of the old, when it is too late to
form a taste for less transient pleasures. The temporary depression
to which I have alluded soon passed from my spirit, and I attribute
it largely to the fact that I have always been pleased with very
simple and accessible things. I always shudder a little at the
approach of winter; yet, when it comes, the trees, dressed in
feathery snow, or prismatic icicles, give me far more enjoyment,
than I could find in a ball-room full of duchesses, decorated with
marabout-feathers, opals, and diamonds. No costly bridal-veil sold
in Broadway would interest me so much as the fairy lace-work which
frost leaves upon the windows, in an unceasing variety of patterns.
The air, filled with minute snow-stars, falling softly, ever
falling, to beautify the earth, is to me a far lovelier sight, than
would have been Prince Esterhazy, who dropped seed-pearls from his
embroidered coat, as he moved in the measured mazes of the dance.

Speaking of the beautiful phenomenon of snow, reminds me how often
the question has been asked what snow _is_, and what _makes_ it. I
have never seen a satisfactory answer; but I happen to know what
snow is, because I once saw the process of its formation. I was
at the house of a Quaker, whose neat wife washed in an unfinished
back-room all winter, that the kitchen might be kept in good order.
I passed through the wash-room on the 16th of December, 1835, a
day still remembered by many for its remarkable intensity of cold.
Clouds of steam, rising from the tubs and boiling kettle, ascended
to the ceiling, and fell from thence in the form of a miniature
snow-storm. Here was an answer to the question, What _is_ snow?
This plainly proved it to be frozen _vapor_, as ice is frozen
_water_. The particles of water, expanded by heat, and floating in
the air, were arrested in their separated state, and congealed in
particles. It does not snow when the weather is intensely cold; for
the lower part of the atmosphere must have some degree of warmth,
if vapor is floating in it. When this vapor ascends, and meets a
colder stratum of air, it is congealed, and falls downward in the
form of snow.

“The snow! The snow! The beautiful snow!” How handsome do meadows
and fields look in their pure, sparkling robe! I do not deny
that the winter of the year and the winter of life both have
intervals of dreariness. The _miserere_ howled by stormy winds is
not pleasing to the ear, nor are the cold gray river and the dark
brown hills refreshing to the eye. But the reading of Whittier’s
Psalm drowns the howling of the winds, as “the clear tones of a
bell are heard above the carts and drays of a city.” Even simple
voices of mutual affection, by the fireside, have such musical and
pervasive power, that the outside storm often passes by unheard.
The absence of colors in the landscape is rather dismal, especially
in the latter part of the winter. Shall I tell you what I do when
I feel a longing for bright hues? I suspend glass prisms in the
windows, and they make the light blossom into rainbows all over
the room. Childish! you will say. I grant it. But is childishness
the greatest folly? I told you I was satisfied with very simple
pleasures; and whether it be wise or not, I consider it great
good fortune. It is more fortunate certainly to have home-made
rainbows _within_, especially when one is old; but even outward
home-made rainbows are not to be despised, when flowers have hidden
themselves, and the sun cannot manifest his prismatic glories, for
want of mediums appropriate for their transmission.

But Nature does not leave us long to pine for variety. Before the
snow-lustre quite passes away, March comes, sombre in dress, but
with a cheerful voice of promise:

  “The beechen buds begin to swell,
  And woods the blue-bird’s warble know.”

Here and there a Lady’s Delight peeps forth, smiling at me “right
peert,” as Westerners say; and the first sight of the bright little
thing gladdens my heart, like the crowing of a babe. The phenomena
of spring have never yet failed to replenish the fountains of my
inward life:

  “Spring still makes spring in the _mind_,
    When sixty years are told;
  Love wakes anew this throbbing heart,
    And we are never old.”

As the season of Nature’s renovation advances, it multiplies within
me spiritual photographs, never to be destroyed. Last year I saw
a striped squirrel hopping along with a green apple in his paws,
hugged up to his pretty little white breast. My mind daguerrotyped
him instantaneously. It is there now; and I expect to find a more
vivid copy when my soul opens its portfolio of pictures in the
other world.

The wonders which summer brings are more and more suggestive of
thought as I grow older. What mysterious vitality, what provident
care, what lavishness of ornament, does Nature manifest, even in
her most common productions! Look at a dry bean-pod, and observe
what a delicate little strip of silver tissue is tenderly placed
above and below the seed! Examine the clusters of Sweet-Williams,
and you will find an endless variety of minute embroidery-patterns,
prettily dotted into the petals with diverse shades of colors. The
shining black seed they produce look all alike; but scatter them in
the ground, and there will spring forth new combinations of form
and color, exceeding the multiform changes of a kaleidoscope. I
never can be sufficiently thankful that I early formed the habit
of working in the garden with loving good-will. It has contributed
more than anything else to promote healthiness of mind and body.

Before one has time to observe a thousandth part of the miracles
of summer, winter appears again, in ermine and diamonds, lavishly
scattering his pearls. My birthday comes at this season, and so I
accept his jewels as a princely largess peculiarly bestowed upon
myself. The day is kept as a festival. That is such a high-sounding
expression, that it may perhaps suggest to you reception-parties,
complimentary verses, and quantities of presents. Very far from it.
Not more than half a dozen people in the world know when the day
occurs, and they do not all remember it. As I arrive at the new
milestone on my pilgrimage, I generally find that a few friends
have placed garlands upon it. My last anniversary was distinguished
by a beautiful novelty. An offering came from people who never
knew me personally, but who were gracious enough to say they took
an interest in me on account of my writings. That was a kindness
that carried me over into my new year on fairy wings! I always
know that the flowers in such garlands are genuine; for those who
deal in artificial roses are not in the habit of presenting them
to secluded old people, without wealth or power. I have heard of a
Parisian lady, who preferred Nattier’s manufactured roses to those
produced by Nature, because they were, as she said, “more like what
a rose _ought_ to be.” But I never prefer artificial things to
natural, even if they _are_ more like what they _ought_ to be. So I
rejoice over the genuineness of the offerings which I find on the
milestone, and often give preference to the simplest of them all.
I thankfully add them to my decorations for the annual festival,
which is kept in the private apartments of my own soul, where
six angel-guests present themselves unbidden,--Use and Beauty,
Love and Memory, Humility and Gratitude. The first suggests to me
to consecrate the advent of a new year in my life by some acts
of kindness toward the sad, the oppressed, or the needy. Another
tells me to collect all the books, engravings, vases, &c., bestowed
by friendly hands on the preceding birthdays of my life. Their
beauties of thought, of form, and of color, excite my imagination,
and fill me with contemplations of the scenes they represent,
or the genius that produced them. Other angels bring back the
looks and tones of the givers, and pleasant incidents, and happy
meetings, in bygone years. Sometimes, Memory looks into my eyes too
sadly, and I answer the look with tears. But I say to her, Nay, my
friend, do not fix upon me that melancholy gaze! Give me some of
thy flowers! Then, with a tender, moonlight smile, she brings me a
handful of fragrant roses, pale, but beautiful. The other angels
bid me remember who bestowed the innumerable blessings of Nature
and Art, of friendship, and capacity for culture, and how unworthy
I am of all His goodness. They move my heart to earnest prayer
that former faults may be forgiven, and that I may be enabled to
live more worthily during the year on which I am entering. But I
do not try to recall the faults of the past, lest such meditations
should tend to make me weak for the future. I have learned that
self-consciousness is not a healthy state of mind, on whatever
theme it employs itself. Therefore, I pray the all-loving Father
to enable me to forget _myself_; not to occupy my thoughts with my
own merits, or my own defects, my successes, or my disappointments;
but to devote my energies to the benefit of others, as a humble
instrument of his goodness, in whatever way He may see fit to point
out.

On this particular birthday, I have been thinking more than ever of
the many compensations which age brings for its undeniable losses.
I count it something to know, that, though the flowers offered
me are _few_, they are undoubtedly _genuine_. I never conformed
much to the world’s ways, but, now that I am an old woman, I
feel more free to ignore its conventional forms, and neglect its
fleeting fashions. That also is a privilege. Another compensation
of years is, that, having outlived expectations, I am free from
disappointments. I deem it a great blessing, also, that the desire
for knowledge grows more active, as the time for acquiring it
diminishes, and as, I realize more fully how much there is to be
learned. It is true that in this pursuit one is always coming up
against walls of limitation. All sorts of flying and creeping
things excite questions in my mind to which I obtain no answers.
I want to know what every bird and insect is doing, and what it
is done for; but I do not understand their language, and no
interpreter between us is to be found. They go on, busily managing
their own little affairs, far more skilfully than we humans could
teach them, with all our boasted superiority of intellect. I peep
and pry into their operations with more and more interest, the
older I grow; but they keep their own secrets so well, that I
discover very little. What I do find out, however, confirms my
belief, that “the hand which made them is divine”; and that is
better than any acquisitions of science. Looking upon the world as
a mere spectacle of beauty, I find its attractions increasing. I
notice more than I ever did the gorgeous phantasmagoria of sunsets,
the magical changes of clouds, the endless varieties of form and
color in the flowers of garden and field, and the shell-flowers
of the sea. Something of tenderness mingles with the admiration
excited by all this fair array of earth, like the lingering,
farewell gaze we bestow on scenes from which we are soon to part.

But the most valuable compensations of age are those of a spiritual
character. I have committed so many faults myself, that I have
become more tolerant of the faults of others than I was when I was
young. My own strength has so often failed me when I trusted to
it, that I have learned to look more humbly for aid from on high.
I have formerly been too apt to murmur that I was not endowed with
gifts and opportunities, which it appeared to me would have been
highly advantageous. But I now see the wisdom and goodness of our
Heavenly Father, even more in what He has denied, than in what He
has bestowed. The rugged paths through which I have passed, the
sharp regrets I have experienced, seem smoother and softer in the
distance behind me. Even my wrong-doings and short-comings have
often been mercifully transmuted into blessings. They have helped
me to descend into the Valley of Humility, through which it is
necessary to pass on our way to the Beautiful City. My restless
aspirations are quieted. They are now all concentrated in this one
prayer:

  “Help me, this and every day,
  To live more nearly as I pray.”

Having arrived at this state of peacefulness and submission, I find
the last few years the happiest of my life.

To you, my dear friend, who are so much younger, I would say,
Travel cheerfully toward the sunset! It will pass gently into a
twilight,
            which has its own peculiar beauties, though
                differing from the morning; and you
                   will find that the night also
                       is cheered by friendly
                           glances of the
                               stars.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]




BRIGHT DAYS IN WINTER.

BY J. G. WHITTIER.


  Bland as the morning’s breath of June,
    The southwest breezes play,
  And through its haze, the winter noon
    Seems warm as summer’s day.

  The snow-plumed Angel of the North
    Has dropped his icy spear;
  Again the mossy earth looks forth,
    Again the streams gush clear.

  The fox his hillside den forsakes;
    The muskrat leaves his nook;
  The blue-bird, in the meadow-brakes,
    Is singing with the brook.

  “Bear up, O Mother Nature!” cry
    Bird, breeze, and streamlet free;
  “Our winter voices prophesy
    Of summer days to thee.”

  So in these winters of the _soul_,
    By wintry blasts and drear
  O’erswept from Memory’s frozen pole,
    Will summer days appear.

  Reviving hope and faith, they show
    The soul its living powers,
  And how, beneath the winter’s snow,
    Lie germs of summer flowers.

  The Night is mother of the Day;
    The Winter of the Spring;
  And ever upon old decay
    The greenest mosses cling.

  Behind the cloud the starlight lurks;
    Through showers the sunbeams fall;
  For God, who loveth all his works,
    Has left his Hope with all.




THE CANARY BIRD.


  Yellow, small Canary bird,
    Sweetly singing all day long,
  Still in winter you are heard,
    Carolling a summer song.

  Thus when days are drear and dim,
    And the _heart_ is caged, as you,
  May it still, with hopeful hymn,
    Sing of joy and find it true.

                        JOHN STERLING




[Illustration]




OLD BACHELORS.

BY L. MARIA CHILD.


The use of the term old bachelor might be objected to, with as
much reason as that of old maid, were it not for the fact that
it has been regarded less contemptuously. Until within the last
half-century, books have been written almost entirely by men.
Looking at the subject from _their_ point of view, they have
generally represented that, if a woman remained single, it was
because she could not avoid it; and that her unfortunate condition
was the consequence of her being repulsive in person or manners.
The dramas and general literature of all countries abound with
jokes on this subject. Women are described as jumping with
ridiculous haste at the first chance to marry, and as being greatly
annoyed if no chance presents itself. To speak of women as in
the market, and of men as purchasers, has so long been a general
habit, that it is done unconsciously; and the habit doubtless
embodies a truth, though few people reflect why it is so. Nearly
all the trades, professions, and offices are engrossed by men;
hence marriage is almost the only honorable means of support for
women, and almost the only avenue open to those who are ambitious
of position in society. This state of things gives an unhealthy
stimulus to match-making, and does much to degrade the true
dignity and purity of marriage. But I allude to it here merely as
explanatory why old maid is considered a more reproachful term than
old bachelor; one being supposed to be incurred voluntarily, and
the other by compulsion.

There is a germ of vanity, more or less expanded in human nature,
under all circumstances. Slaves are often very vain of bringing an
unusually high price in the market; because it implies that they
are handsome, vigorous, or intelligent. It is the same feeling,
manifested under a different aspect, that makes many women vain of
the number of offers they have received, and mortified if they have
had none. Men, on the contrary, being masters of the field, are
troubled with no sense of shame, if they continue in an isolated
position through life, though they may experience regret. The
kind of jokes to which _they_ are subjected generally imply that
they have been less magnanimous than they should have been, in
not taking to themselves somebody to protect and support. Such a
“railing accusation” is rather gratifying to the pride of human
nature. Instead of hanging their heads, they sometimes smile,
and say, with an air of gracious condescension: “Perhaps I _may_
some day. I have not decided yet. I want to examine the market
further.” Now it is ten chances to one, that the individual thus
speaking _has_ been examining the market, as he calls it, for a
long time; that he has been to the Fair, and tried to appropriate
various pretty articles, but has been told that they were reserved
for a previous purchaser. He may have been disappointed on such
occasions; and if they occurred when youth was passing away, he may
have been prompted to look in the mirror, to pull out gray hairs,
and ascertain whether crows have been walking over his face. But if
he perceives traces of their feet, he says to himself, “Pshaw! What
consequence is it, so long as I have a full purse and a handsome
house to offer? I shall have better luck next time. There are as
good fish in the sea as ever were caught. One only needs to have
bait on the hook.” And so when a married acquaintance reminds him
that he ought to take a wife, he answers, complacently, “Perhaps
I _shall_. I want to examine the market.” He is the one to confer
support; he need not wait to be asked. There is a dignified
independence in such a position. Hence the term old bachelor is not
so opprobrious as old maid, and no apology is necessary for using
it.

It is true, the single brotherhood are not without their
annoyances. A meddlesome woman will sometimes remark to a bachelor
friend, in a significant sort of way, that the back of his coat
has a one-eyed look, by reason of the deficiency of a button;
and she will add, in a compassionate tone, “But what else can be
expected, when a man has no wife to look after him?” Another,
still more mischievous, who happens to know of his attending the
Fair, and trying to buy various articles otherwise appropriated,
will sometimes offer impertinent consolation; saying, “Don’t be
discouraged. Try again. Perhaps you’ll have better luck next time.
You know the proverb says, There never was so silly a Jack but
there’s _as_ silly a Gill.” Then again, the French phrase for old
bachelor, _Vieux Garçon_, translates itself into right impudent
English. Why on earth should a man be called the Old Boy, merely
because he has not seen fit to marry? when it is either because he
don’t like the market, or wants to look further, in order to make
sure of getting his money’s worth in the article.

I have spoken facetiously, but it may well be excused. Women have
for so many generations been the subject of pitiless jokes, rung
through all manner of changes, and not always in the best taste,
that it is pardonable to throw back a few jests, provided it be
done in sport, rather than in malice. The simple fact is, however,
that what I have said of unmarried women is also true of unmarried
men; their being single is often the result of superior delicacy
and refinement of feeling. Those who are determined to marry, will
usually accomplish their object, sooner or later, while those
who shrink from making wedlock a mere convenience, unsanctified
by affection, will prefer isolation, though they sometimes find
it sad. I am now thinking of one, who, for many reasons would
probably be accepted by ninety-nine women out of a hundred. I once
said to him, “How is it, that a man of your domestic tastes and
affectionate disposition has never married?” He hesitated a moment,
then drew from under his vest the miniature of a very lovely woman,
and placed it in my hand. I looked up with an inquiring glance,
to which he replied: “Yes, perhaps it might have been; perhaps it
_ought_ to have been. But I had duties to perform toward my widowed
mother, which made me doubt whether it were justifiable to declare
my feelings to the young lady. Meanwhile, another offered himself.
She married him, and is, I believe, happy. I have never seen
another woman who awakened in me the same feelings, and so I have
remained unmarried.”

I knew twin brothers, who became attached to the same lady. One
was silent, for his brother’s sake; but he never married; and
through life he loved and assisted his brother’s children, as
if they had been his own. There are many such facts to prove
that self-sacrifice and constancy are far from being exclusively
feminine virtues.

But my impression is, that there is a larger proportion of
unmarried women than of unmarried men, who lead unselfish, useful
lives. I, at least, have happened to know of more “Aunt Kindlys,”
than Uncle Kindlys. Women, by the nature of their in-door habits
and occupations, can nestle themselves into the inmost of other
people’s families, much more readily than men. The household
inmate, who cuts paper-dolls to amuse fretful children, or soothes
them with lullabies when they are tired,--who sews on buttons
for the father, when he is in a hurry, or makes goodies for the
invalid mother,--becomes part and parcel of the household; whereas
a bachelor is apt to be a sort of appendage; beloved and agreeable,
perhaps, but still something on the outside. He is like moss on
the tree, very pretty and ornamental, especially when lighted up
by sunshine; but no inherent part of the tree, essential to its
growth. Sometimes, indeed, one meets with a genial old bachelor,
who cannot enter the house of a married friend, or relative,
without having the children climb into his lap, pull out his watch,
and search his pocket for sugar-plums. But generally, it must
be confessed that a _Vieux Garçon_ acts like an Old Boy when he
attempts to make himself useful in the house. His efforts to quiet
crying babies are laughable, and invariably result in making the
babies cry more emphatically. A dignified, scholastic bachelor, who
had been spending the night with a married friend, was leaving his
house after breakfast, when a lovely little girl of four or five
summers peeped from the shrubbery, and called out, “Good morning!”
“Good morning, child!” replied he, with the greatest solemnity of
manner, and passed on. A single _woman_ would have said, “Good
morning, dear!” or “Good morning, little one!” But the bachelor was
as dignified as if he had been making an apostrophe to the stars.
Yet he had a great, kind heart, and was a bachelor because that
heart was too refined to easily forget a first impression.

Bachelors do not become an outside appendage, if they are fortunate
enough to have an unmarried sister, with whom they can form one
household. There is such a couple in my neighborhood, as cozy
and comfortable as any wedded pair, and quite as unlikely to
separate, as if the law bound them together. The sister is a
notable body, who does well whatever her hands find to do; and the
brother adopts wise precautions against tedious hours. He was a
teacher in his youth, but is a miller now. An old mill is always
a picturesque object, standing as it must in the midst of running
water, whose drops sparkle and gleam in sunlight and moonlight.
And our bachelor’s mill is hidden in a wood, where birds love to
build their nests, and innumerable insects are busy among ferns
and mosses. The miller is busy, too, with a lathe to fill up the
moments unoccupied by the work of the mill. He has made a powerful
telescope for himself, and returns to his home in the evening to
watch the changing phases of the planets, or to entertain his
neighbors with a vision of Saturn sailing through boundless fields
of ether in his beautiful luminous ring. He can also discourse
sweet music to his sister, by means of a parlor seraphine.

I know another bachelor, who finds time to be a benefactor to
his neighborhood, though his life is full of labors and cares.
In addition to the perpetual work of a farm, he devotes himself
with filial tenderness to a widowed mother and invalid aunts, and
yet he is always ready wherever help or sympathy is needed. If
a poor widow needs wood cut, he promptly supplies the want, and
few men with a carriage and four are so ready to furnish a horse
for any kindly service. The children all know his sleigh, and
call after him for a ride. None of his animals have the forlorn,
melancholy look which indicates a hard master. The expression of
his countenance would never suggest to any one the condition of an
old bachelor; on the contrary, you would suppose he had long been
accustomed to look into the eyes of little ones clambering upon his
knees for a kiss. This is because he adopts all little humans into
his heart.

I presume it will generally be admitted that bachelors are more
apt to be epicures, than are unmarried women. In the first place,
they have fewer details of employment to occupy their thoughts
perpetually; and secondly, they generally have greater pecuniary
means for self-indulgence. The gourmand, who makes himself unhappy,
and disturbs everybody around him, if his venison is cooked the
fortieth part of a minute too long, is less agreeable, and not less
ridiculous than the old fop, who wears false whiskers, and cripples
his feet with tight boots.

There is a remedy for this, and for all other selfishness and
vanity; it is to go out of ourselves, and be busy with helping
others. Petty annoyances slip away and are forgotten when the mind
is thus occupied. The wealthy merchant would find it an agreeable
variation to the routine of business to interest himself in the
welfare and improvement of the sailors he employs. The prosperous
farmer would find mind and heart enlarged by helping to bring into
general use new and improved varieties of fruits and vegetables;
not for mere money-making, but for the common good. And all would
be happier for taking an active interest in the welfare of their
country, and the progress of the world.

Nothing can be more charming than Dickens’s description of the
Cheeryble Brothers, “whose goodness was so constantly a diffusing
of itself over everywhere.”

“‘Brother Ned,’ said Mr. Cheeryble, tapping with his knuckles, and
stooping to listen, ‘are you busy, my dear brother? or can you
spare time for a word or two with me?’

“‘Brother Charles, my dear fellow,’ replied a voice from within,
‘don’t ask me such a question, but come in directly.’ Its tones
were so exactly like that which had just spoken, that Nicholas
started, and almost thought it was the same.

“They went in without further parley. What was the amazement of
Nicholas, when his conductor advanced and exchanged a warm greeting
with another old gentleman, the very type and model of himself;
the same face, the same figure, the same coat, waistcoat, and
neckcloth, the same breeches and gaiters; nay, there was the very
same white hat hanging against the wall. Nobody could have doubted
their being twin brothers. As they shook each other by the hand,
the face of each lighted up with beaming looks of affection, which
would have been most delightful to behold in infants, and which in
men so old was inexpressibly touching.

“‘Brother Ned,’ said Charles, ‘here is a young friend that we must
assist. We must make proper inquiries into his statements, and if
they are confirmed, as they will be, we must assist him.’

“‘It is enough, my dear brother, that you say we should. When you
say that, no further inquiries are needed. He _shall_ be assisted.’

“‘I’ve a plan, my dear brother, I’ve a plan,’ said Charles. ‘Tim
Linkinwater is getting old; and Tim has been a faithful servant,
brother Ned; and I don’t think pensioning Tim’s mother and sister,
and buying a little tomb for the family when his poor brother died,
was a sufficient recompense for his faithful services.’

“‘No, no,’ replied the other, ‘not half enough; not half.’

“‘If we could lighten Tim’s duties,’ said the old gentleman, ‘and
prevail upon him to go into the country now and then, and sleep in
the fresh air two or three times a week, Tim Linkinwater would grow
young again in time; and he’s three good years our senior now. Old
Tim Linkinwater young again! Eh, brother Ned, eh? Why, I recollect
old Tim Linkinwater quite a little boy; don’t you? Ha, ha, ha!
Poor Tim! Poor Tim!’ and the fine old fellows laughed pleasantly
together; each with a tear of regard for old Tim Linkinwater
standing in his eye.

“‘But you must hear this young gentleman’s story,’ said Charles;
‘you’ll be very much affected, brother Ned, remembering the time
when _we_ were two friendless lads, and earned our first shilling
in this great city.’

“The twins pressed each other’s hands in silence, and, in his own
homely manner, Charles related the particulars he had just heard
from Nicholas. It is no disparagement to the young man to say
that, at every fresh expression of their kindness and sympathy, he
could only wave his hand and sob like a child.

“‘But we are keeping our young friend too long, my dear brother,’
said Charles. ‘His poor mother and sister will be anxious for his
return. So good by for the present. Good by. No, not a word now.
Good by.’ And the brothers hurried him out, shaking hands with him
all the way, and affecting, very unsuccessfully (for they were poor
hands at deception), to be wholly unconscious of the feelings that
mastered him.

“The next day, he was appointed to the vacant stool in the
counting-house of Cheeryble Brothers, with a salary of one hundred
and twenty pounds a year. ‘And I think, my dear brother,’ said
Charles, ‘that if we were to let them that little cottage at Bow,
something under the usual rent--Eh, brother Ned?’

“‘For nothing at all,’ said his brother, ‘We are rich, and should
be ashamed to touch the rent under such circumstances as these. For
nothing at all, my dear brother.’

“‘Perhaps it would be better to say something,’ suggested the
other, mildly. ‘We might say fifteen or twenty pound; and if it
was punctually paid, make it up to them in some other way. It
would help to preserve habits of frugality, you know, and remove
any painful sense of overwhelming obligation. And I might secretly
advance a small loan toward a little furniture; and you might
secretly advance another small loan, brother Ned. And if we find
them doing well we can change the loans into gifts; carefully, and
by degrees, without pressing upon them too much. What do you say
now, brother?’

“Brother Ned gave his hand upon it, and not only said it should
be done, but had it done. And in one short week, Nicholas took
possession of his stool, and his mother and sister took possession
of the house; and all was hope, bustle, and lightheartedness.”

There are Cheeryble old bachelors in real life; genial souls, and
genuine benefactors to mankind.
        When they are so, I think they deserve more credit
            than married men of similar characters; for
                the genial virtues are fostered by
                  kindly domestic influences, as
                       fruit is matured and
                         sweetened by the
                             sunshine.

[Illustration]

    The dog in the kennel growls at his fleas; the dog that is busy
    hunting does not feel them.

                          CHINESE PROVERB.




[Illustration]




TAKING IT EASY.

BY GEORGE H. CLARK.


  Admit that I am slightly bald,--
    Pray, who’s to blame for that?
  And who is wiser for the fact,
    Until I lift my hat?
  Beneath the brim my barbered locks
    Fall in a careless way,
  Wherein my watchful wife can spy
    No lurking threads of gray.

  What though, to read compactest print,
    I’m forced to hold my book
  A little farther off than when
    Life’s first degree I took?
  A yoke of slightly convex lens
    The needful aid bestows,
  And you should see how wise I look
    With it astride my nose.

  Don’t talk of the infernal pangs
    That rheumatism brings!
  I’m getting used to pains and aches,
    And all those sort of things.
  And when the imp Sciatica
    Makes his malicious call,
  I do not need an almanac
    To tell me it is fall.

  Besides, it gives one quite an air
    To travel with a cane,
  And makes folk think you “well to do,”
    Although you are in pain.
  A fashionable hat may crown
    Genteelest coat and vest,
  But ah! the sturdy stick redeems
    And sobers all the rest.

  A man deprived of natural sleep
    Becomes a stupid elf,
  And only steals from Father Time
    To stultify himself.
  So, if you’d be a jovial soul,
    And laugh at life’s decline,
  Take my advice,--turn off the gas,
    And go to bed at nine!

  An easy-cushioned rocking-chair
    Suits me uncommon well;
  And so do liberal shoes,--like these,--
    With room for corns to swell;
  I cotton to the soft lamb’s-wool
    That lines my gloves of kid,
  And love elastic home-made socks,--
    Indeed, I always did.

  But what disturbs me more than all
    Is, that sarcastic boys
  Prefer to have me somewhere else,
    When they are at their noise;
  That while I try to look and act
    As like them as I can,
  They will persist in _mister_-ing me,
    And calling me a man!

       *       *       *       *       *

  True--Time will seam and blanch my brow.
    Well, I shall sit with aged men,
  And my good glass will tell me how
    A grisly beard becomes me then.

  And should no foul dishonor lie
    Upon my head, when I am gray,
  Love yet shall watch my fading eye,
    And smooth the path of my decay.

  Then haste thee, Time,--’tis kindness all
    That speeds thy wingèd feet so fast;
  Thy pleasures stay not till they pall,
    And all thy pains are quickly past.

  Thou fliest and bear’st away our woes,
    And, as thy shadowy train depart,
  The memory of sorrow grows
    A lighter burden on the heart.

                        W. C. BRYANT.




[Illustration]




OLD AUNTY.

    The following is a true story. I well remember the worthy old
    woman, who sat in Washington Park, behind a table covered with
    apples and nuts. I also know the family of the little Joanna,
    who used to carry her a cup of hot tea and warm rolls from one
    of the big houses in the adjoining Square, and who got up a
    petition to the Mayor in her behalf. It is a humble picture;
    but a soft, warm light falls on it from poor Old Aunty’s
    self-sacrificing devotion to her orphans, and from the mutual
    love between her and the children of the neighborhood.

                                                            L. M. C.


All the children knew Old Aunty. Every day, in rain or shine, she
sat there in the Park, with her little store of candies, cakes, and
cigars, spread on a wooden box. Her cheerful smile and hearty “God
bless you!” were always ready for the children, whether they bought
of her or not. If they stopped to purchase, she gave right generous
measure, heaping the nuts till they rolled off the top of the pint,
and often throwing in a cake or stick of candy; so generous was her
heart.

Like all unselfish people, Aunty was happy as the days are long.
Had you followed her home at night, you would have seen her travel
down a poor old street, narrow and musty, and climb the broken
stairs of a poor old house that was full of other lodgers, some
of them noisy, disorderly, and intemperate. When she opened the
creaking door of her one small room, you would have seen the boards
loose in the floor, little furniture, very little that looked like
rest or comfort, like _home_ for a tired body that had toiled
full seventy years, and had once known the pleasure of a cheerful
fireside and a full house.

But presently you would hear the patter of little feet, and the
music of children’s voices, and little hands at work with the rusty
door-latch, till open it flew. You would have heard two merry
little creatures shouting, “Granny’s come home! Dear Granny’s come
home!” You would have seen them dancing about her, clapping their
hands, and saying, “O we’re so glad, so glad you’ve come back!”
These are the orphan grandchildren, to feed and clothe whom Old
Aunty is willing to walk so far, and sit so long in the cold, and
earn penny by penny, as the days go by.

She kindles no fire, for it is not winter yet, and the poor can
eat their supper cold; but the children’s love and a well-spent
day kindle a warmth and a light in the good dame’s heart, such as
I fear seldom beams in some of those great stately houses in the
Square.

With such a home, it is not strange that Aunty liked to sit under
the pleasant trees of the Parade Ground (for so the Park was
called), breathe the fresh air, and watch the orderly people going
to and fro. Many stopped to exchange a word with her; even the
police officers, in their uniforms, liked a chat with the sociable
old lady; and the children, on their way to school, were never too
hurried for a “Good morning, Aunty!” that would leave a smile on
her wrinkled face, long after they had bounded out of sight.

It was nearly as good as if Aunty had a farm of her own; for it
is always country up in the sky, you know; in the beautiful blue,
among the soft clouds, and along the tops of the trees. Even in
that dismal, musty street, where she lived, she could see the
sunshine, and the wonderful stars at evening. Then all about the
Parade Ground stood the fine great houses of Washington Square; and
leading from it, that Fifth Avenue, which is said to be the most
splendid street in the world,--whole miles of palaces.

“Don’t I enjoy them all, without having the care of them?” Aunty
used to say.

When we asked if she didn’t grow tired of sitting there all day,
she would answer, “Sure, and who isn’t tired sometimes, rich or
poor?”

“But is not the ground damp, Aunty?”

“I expect it is, especially after a rain; but what then? It only
gives me the rheumatism; and that is _all_ the trouble I have. God
be praised!”

“But it is so cold now, Aunty; so late in November; and you are so
old; it isn’t safe.”

“O, but it’s safer than to have my children starve or turn beggars,
I guess. I have my old umbrella when it rains or snows, and them’s
my harvest-days, you see; for there’s a deal of pity in the world.
And besides, the children in that house yonder, often bring me out
a hot cup of tea at luncheon-time, or cakes of good warm bread in
the morning. Let me alone for being happy!”

But earthly happiness hangs on a slight thread. There came a change
in the city government; Aunty’s good friends among the police were
removed; the new officers proved their zeal by making every change
they could think of. “New brooms sweep clean,” and they swept off
from the Parade Ground, poor Aunty, and all her stock in trade.

But in one of the houses opposite Aunty’s corner of the Park, lived
a family of children who took especial interest in her; Charlie,
Willie, Vincent, and Joanna, and I can’t tell how many more. It
was they who christened her “Aunty,” till all the neighbors, old
and young, took up the name; it was they who, on wintry days, had
offered her the hot cup of tea, and the warm bread. They almost
felt as if she were an own relative, or a grown-up child given them
to protect and comfort.

One morning, Joanna looked up from the breakfast-table, and
exclaimed, “There! Aunty is not in the Park; they have sent her
away!”

The children had feared this change. You may guess how eagerly they
ran to the window, and with what mournful faces they exclaimed
again and again, “It is too bad!” They would eat no more breakfast;
they could think and talk of nothing but Aunty’s wrongs.

It was a bleak December day, and there the poor old woman sat
outside the iron railing, no pleasant trees above her, but dust and
dead leaves blowing wildly about. Charlie said, with tears in his
eyes, “It’s enough to blind poor Old Aunty.”

“It’s enough to ruin her candy,” said Joanna, who was a practical
little body. She had a look in her eyes that was better than tears;
a look that seemed to say, “Her candy shall _not_ be ruined. Aunty
shall go back to her rightful place.”

We did not know about Aunty’s having any _right_ to her old seat;
but we all agreed that it was far better for her to sit near
the path that ran slantwise through the Park, and was trodden
by hundreds and thousands of feet every day; clerks going to
Sixth Avenue, and merchants to Broadway; newsmen, porters,
school-children, teachers, preachers, invalids; there was no end to
the people. Many a cake or apple they had taken from Aunty’s board,
and in their haste, or kindness, never waited for change to the bit
of silver they tossed her.

In New York every one is in such a hurry that unless you are almost
under their feet they cannot see you. For this reason, on the day
of Aunty’s absence, she had the grief of watching many old friends
and customers go past, give a surprised look at her old seat, and
hurry on, never observing her, though she sat so near.

A few, who espied Aunty, stopped in their haste to hear her story
and condole with her. The children found her out, you may be sure,
and gathered about her, telling her how much too bad it was; and
how they should like to set the policemen, Mayor and all, out there
on a bench in the dust, for one half-hour; but what could children
do? So they passed on. Some of the fashionable ladies in the Square
stopped to tell Aunty how they pitied her, begged her not to feel
unhappy, and passed on. Only Trouble stood still and frowned at
her; all the rest passed on.

No, not all; not our little Joanna. She came home with a thoughtful
face, and asked, very energetically, “What do you mean to do about
Aunty? It is a shame that all these rich, strong, grown-up people
on the Square, cannot stand up for the rights of one poor old
woman.”

We told her the city was richer than the richest, stronger than the
strongest.

“O,” persisted Joanna, “if we, or any of them, wanted a new
lamp-post, or a hydrant mended, we should muster strength fast
enough. And now, what’s to become of Aunty and her poor children?
that is all I ask.”

We smiled at Joey’s enthusiasm, and thought it would soon pass
away. When she came home from school that afternoon, with a whole
troop of little girls, we thought it had already passed away. As
they ran down the area-steps, we wondered what amusement they were
planning now. Presently, Joanna came up-stairs, her eyes looking
very bright, and said, “Please give me the inkstand.”

We asked, “What now, child?”

“O, do just give me the inkstand!” said she, impatiently. “We are
not in any mischief; we are attending to _business_”; and off she
ran.

Before very long she appeared again with a paper, her black eyes
burning like stars. “There, mother,--and all of you,--you must sign
this letter, as quick as ever you can. I have made a statement of
Aunty’s case; all the children have signed their names; and now we
are going to every house in the Square, till we have a good long
list.”

“And what then?”

“I shall ask father to take it to the Mayor. He won’t be so
unreasonable as to refuse us; no one could.”

Joanna had written out Aunty’s story, in her own simple, direct
way. She told how this nice, neat, pleasant old person had been
turned out of the Park; how the children all had liked her, and
found it convenient to buy at her table; and how she never scolded
if they dropped papers and nutshells about, but took her own little
pan and brush and swept them away; she was so orderly. She ended
her letter with a petition that the Mayor would be so good to the
children, and this excellent old grandmother, as to let her go back
to her old seat.

If the Mayor could refuse, we could not; so our names went down
on the paper; and before the ink was dry, off ran Joanna. The
hall-door slammed, and we saw her with all her friends run up the
steps of the neighboring houses, full of excitement and hope.

Nearly all the families that lived in the great houses of
Washington Square were rich; and some of them proud and selfish,
perhaps; for money sometimes does sad mischief to the hearts of
people. We asked ourselves, “What will they care for old Aunty?”

Whatever their tempers might be, however, when the lady or
gentleman came and saw the bright, eager faces, and the young eyes
glistening with sympathy, and the little hands pointing out there
at the aged woman on the sidewalk,--while they were in their gilded
and cushioned houses,--they could not refuse a name, and the list
swelled fast.

At one house lived three Jewesses, who were so pleased with the
children’s scheme, that they not only gave their own names, but
obtained many more. “They are Jews, ma’am, but they’re Christians!”
said Aunty afterwards; by which she meant, it is not _names_, but
_actions_, that prove us followers of the loving, compassionate
Christ.

So large was the Square, so many houses to visit, that the
ladies’ help was very welcome. They could state Aunty’s case with
propriety; and what with their words and the children’s eloquent
faces, all went well.

So the paper was filled with signatures, and Joanna’s father took
it to the Mayor. He smiled, and signed his name, in big letters, to
an order that Aunty should return at once to her old seat, and have
all the privileges she had ever enjoyed in the Park; and the next
morning there she was, in her own old corner!

As soon as she came, the children ran out to welcome her. As she
shook hands with them, and looked up in their pleased faces, we saw
her again and again wipe the tears from her old eyes.

Everybody that spoke to Aunty that day, congratulated her; and when
the schools in the neighborhood were dismissed, the scholars and
teachers went together, in procession, and bought everything Aunty
had to sell; till the poor old woman could only cover her face and
cry, to think that she had so many friends. If ever you go to the
Parade Ground, in New York, you may talk with old Aunty, and ask
her if this story is not true.

                                                                  B.




[Illustration]




RICHARD AND KATE.

A SUFFOLK BALLAD.

    The following verses were written by Robert Bloomfield,
    an English shoemaker, more than sixty years ago, when the
    working-classes of England had far more limited opportunities
    for obtaining education than they now have. Criticism could
    easily point out imperfections in the style of this simple
    story, but the consolations of age among the poor are presented
    in such a touching manner that it is worthy of preservation.


  “Come, Goody! stop your humdrum wheel!
    Sweep up your orts, and get your hat!
  Old joys revived once more I feel,
   ’Tis Fair-day! Ay, and _more_ than that!

  “Have you forgot, Kate, prithee say,
    How many seasons here we’ve tarried?
  ’Tis forty years, this very day,
  Since you and I, old girl, were _married_.

  “Look out! The sun shines warm and bright;
    The stiles are low, the paths all dry:
  I know you cut your corns last night;
    Come! be as free from care as I.

  “For I’m resolved once more to see
    That place where we so often met;
  Though few have had more cares than we,
    We’ve none just now to make us fret.”

  Kate scorned to damp the generous flame,
    That warmed her aged partner’s breast;
  Yet, ere determination came,
    She thus some trifling doubts expressed:--

  “Night will come on, when seated snug,
    And you’ve perhaps begun some tale;
  Can you then leave your dear stone mug?
    Leave all the folks, and all the ale?”

  “Ay, Kate, I wool; because I know,
    Though time _has_ been we both could run,
  Such days are gone and over now.
    I only mean to see the fun.”

  His mattock he behind the door,
    And hedging gloves, again replaced;
  And looked across the yellow moor,
    And urged his tottering spouse to haste.

  The day was up, the air serene,
    The firmament without a cloud;
  The bees hummed o’er the level green,
    Where knots of trembling cowslips bowed.

  And Richard thus, with heart elate,
    As past things rushed across his mind,
  Over his shoulder talked to Kate,
    Who, snug tucked up, walked slow behind:

  “When once a giggling mauther[G] you,
    And I a red-faced, chubby boy,
  Sly tricks you played me, not a few;
    For mischief was your greatest joy.

  “Once, passing by this very tree,
    A gotch[H] of milk I’d been to fill;
  You shouldered me; then laughed to see
    Me and my gotch spin down the hill.”

  “’Tis true,” she said; “but here behold,
    And marvel at the course of time!
  Though you and I are both grown old,
    This tree is only in its prime.”

  “Well, Goody, don’t stand preaching now!
    Folks don’t preach sermons at a Fair.
  We’ve reared ten boys and girls, you know;
    And I’ll be bound they’ll all be there.”

  Now friendly nods and smiles had they,
    From many a kind Fair-going face;
  And many a pinch Kate gave away,
    While Richard kept his usual pace.

  At length, arrived amid the throng,
    Grandchildren, bawling, hemmed them round,
  And dragged them by the skirts along,
    Where gingerbread bestrewed the ground.

  And soon the aged couple spied
    Their lusty sons, and daughters dear;
  When Richard thus exulting cried:
    “Didn’t I _tell_ you they’d be here?”

  The cordial greetings of the soul
    Were visible in every face;
  Affection, void of all control,
    Governed with a resistless grace.

  ’Twas good to see the honest strife,
    Who should contribute most to please;
  And hear the long-recounted life,
    Of infant tricks and happy days.

  But now, as at some nobler places,
    Among the leaders ’twas decreed
  Time to begin the Dicky-Races,
    More famed for laughter than for speed.

  Richard looked on with wondrous glee,
    And praised the lad who chanced to win.
  “Kate, wa’n’t I such a one as he?
    As like him, ay, as pin to pin?

  “Full fifty years have passed away,
    Since I rode this same ground about;
  Lord! I was lively as the day!
    I won the High-lows, out and out.

  “I’m surely growing young again,
    I feel myself so kedge and plump!
  From head to feet I’ve not one pain.
    Nay, hang me, if I couldn’t jump!”

  Thus spake the ale in Richard’s pate;
    A very little made him mellow;
  But still he loved his faithful Kate,
    Who whispered thus: “My good old fellow,

  “Remember what you promised me!
    And, see, the sun is getting low!
  The children want an hour, ye see,
    To talk a bit before we go.”

  Like youthful lover, most complying,
    He turned and chucked her by the chin
  Then all across the green grass hieing;
    Right merry faces, all akin.

  Their farewell quart beneath a tree,
    That drooped its branches from above,
  Awaked the pure felicity,
    That waits upon parental love.

  Kate viewed her blooming daughters round,
    And sons who shook her withered hand;
  Her features spoke what joy she found.
    But utterance had made a stand.

  The children toppled on the green,
    And bowled their fairings down the hill
  Richard with pride beheld the scene,
    Nor could he, for his life, sit still.

  A father’s unchecked feelings gave
    A tenderness to all he said:
  “My boys, how proud am I to have
    My name thus round the country spread.

  “Through all my days I’ve labored hard,
    And could of pains and crosses tell;
  But this is labor’s great reward,
    To meet ye thus, and see ye well.

  “My good old partner, when at home,
    Sometimes with wishes mingles tears;
  Goody, says I, let what wool come,
    We’ve nothing for them but our prayers.

  “May you be all as old as I,
    And see your sons to manhood grow;
  And many a time, before you die,
    Be just as pleased as I am now.”

  Then (raising still his mug and voice),
    “An old man’s weakness don’t despise!
  I love you well, my girls and boys.
    God bless you all!” So said his eyes;

  For, as he spoke, a big round drop
    Fell bounding on his ample sleeve;
  A witness which he could not stop;
    A witness which all hearts believe.

  Thou, filial piety, wert there;
    And round the ring, benignly bright,
  Dwelt in the luscious half-shed tear,
    And in the parting words, “Good Night!”

  With thankful hearts and strengthened love
    The poor old pair, supremely blest,
  Saw the sun sink behind the grove,
    And gained once more their lowly rest.

    [G] A giddy young girl.

    [H] A pitcher.




[Illustration]




LUDOVICO CORNARO.

DERIVED FROM THE WRITINGS OF CORNARO.

                “I do not woo
  The means of weakness and debility;
  Therefore, my age is as a lusty winter,
  Frosty, but kindly.”

                        _Varied from_ SHAKESPEARE.


Ludovico Cornaro, descended from a noble family in Venice, was born
in 1462, thirty years before America was discovered. He removed
to Padua, where he married, and late in life had an only child, a
daughter, who married one of the Cornaro family.

As an illustration of the physical laws of our being, the
outlines of his history are worthy of preservation. He was
wealthy, and indulged in the habits common to young men of his
class. He was fond of sensual indulgences, and especially drank
wine intemperately. The consequence was, that from twenty-five
years of age to forty, he was afflicted with dyspepsia, gout,
and frequent slow fevers. Medicines failed to do any permanent
good, and physicians told him that nothing could restore him but
simplicity and regularity of living. This advice was very contrary
to his taste, and he continued to indulge in the luxuries of the
table, paying the penalty of suffering for it afterwards. At last
his health was so nearly ruined, that the doctors predicted he
could not live many months. At this crisis, being about forty
years old, he resolved to become temperate and abstemious; but
it required so much effort to change his dissipated habits, that
he frequently resorted to prayer for aid in keeping the virtuous
resolution. His perseverance was more speedily rewarded than might
have been expected; for in less than a year he was freed from the
diseases which had so long tormented him. In order to preserve the
health thus restored to him, he observed the peculiarities of his
constitution, and carefully conformed to them in his habits and
modes of living. He says: “It is a favorite maxim with epicures
that whatever pleases the palate must agree with the stomach and
nourish the body; but this I found to be false; for pork, pastry,
salads, rough wines, &c., were very agreeable to my palate, yet
they disagreed with me.” There seems to have been nothing peculiar
in the kinds of food which constituted his nourishment; moderation
as to quantity, and simplicity in modes of cooking, were the
principal things he deemed of importance. He speaks of mutton,
fish, poultry, birds, eggs, light soups and broths, and new wine in
moderate quantities, as among his customary articles of diet. He
is particularly earnest in his praises of bread. He says: “Bread,
above all things, is man’s proper food, and always relishes well
when seasoned by a good appetite; and this natural sauce is never
wanting to those who eat but little; for when the stomach is not
burdened, there is no need to wait long for an appetite. I speak
from experience; for I find such sweetness in bread, that I should
be afraid of sinning against temperance in eating it, were it not
for my being convinced of the absolute necessity for nourishment,
and that we cannot make use of a more natural kind of food.”

He does not lay down specific rules for others, but very wisely
advises each one to govern himself according to the laws of his own
constitution. He says every man ought carefully to observe what
kinds of food and drink agree or disagree with him, and indulge
or refrain accordingly; but whatever he eats or drinks, it should
be in quantities so moderate as to be easily digested. He grows
eloquent in his warnings against the fashionable luxury, by which
he had himself suffered so severely. He exclaims: “O, unhappy
Italy! Do you not see that intemperance causes more deaths than
plague, or fire, or many battles? These profuse feasts, now so
much in fashion, where the tables are not large enough to hold the
variety of dishes, I tell you these cause more murders than so
many battles. I beseech you to put a stop to these abuses. Banish
luxury, as you would the plague. I am certain there is no vice more
abominable in the eyes of the Divine Majesty. It brings on the body
a long and lasting train of disagreeable sensations and diseases,
and at length it destroys the soul also. I have seen men of fine
understanding and amiable disposition carried off by this plague,
in the flower of their youth, who, if they had lived abstemiously,
might now be among us, to benefit and adorn society.”

His dissertations on health may be condensed into the following
concise general rules, which are worthy of all acceptance:--

Let every man study his own constitution, and regulate food, drink,
and other habits in conformity thereto.

Never indulge in anything which has the effect to render the body
uncomfortable or lethargic, or the mind restless and irritable.

Even healthy food should be cooked with simplicity, and eaten with
moderation. Never eat or drink to repletion, but make it a rule to
rise from the table with inclination for a little more.

Be regular in the hours for meals and sleep.

Be in the open air frequently; riding, walking, or using other
moderate exercise.

Avoid extremes of heat or cold, excessive fatigue, and places
where the air is unwholesome, for want of ventilation.

Restrain anger and fretfulness, and keep all malignant or sensual
passions in constant check. Banish melancholy, and do everything to
promote cheerfulness. All these things have great influence over
bodily health.

Interest yourself constantly in employments of some kind.

He gives it as his opinion that anger, peevishness, and despondency
are not likely to trouble those who are temperate and regular in
their habits, and diligent in their occupations. He says: “I was
born with a very choleric disposition, insomuch that there was
no living with me. But I reflected that a person under the sway
of passion was for the time being no better than a lunatic. I
therefore resolved to make my temper give way to reason. I have so
far succeeded, that anger never entirely overcomes me, though I do
not guard myself so well as not to be sometimes hurried away by it.
I have, however, learned by experience that hurtful passions of any
kind have but little power over those who lead a sober and useful
life. Neither despondency nor any other affection of the mind will
harm bodies governed by temperance and regularity.”

In answer to the objection that he lived too sparingly to make
the change which is sometimes necessary in case of sickness, he
replies: “Nature is so desirous to preserve men in good health,
that she herself teaches them how to ward off illness. When it is
not good for them to eat, appetite usually diminishes. Whether a
man has been abstemious or not, when he is ill it is necessary to
take only such nourishment as is suited to his disorder, and even
that in smaller quantities than he was accustomed to in health.
But the best answer to this objection is, that those who live very
temperately are not liable to be sick. By removing the _cause_ of
diseases, they prevent the _effects_.”

He also maintains that external injuries are very easily cured,
when the blood has been kept in a pure state by abstemious living
and regular habits. In proof of it, he tells his own experience
when, at seventy years of age, he was overturned in a coach, and
dragged a considerable distance by the frightened horses. He was
severely bruised, and a leg and arm were broken; but his recovery
was so rapid and complete, that physicians were astonished.

Much of his health and cheerfulness he attributes to constant
occupation. He says: “The greatest source of my happiness is the
power to render some service to my dear country. O, what a glorious
amusement! I delight to show Venice how her important harbor can
be improved, and how large tracts of lands, marshes and barren
sands can be rendered productive; how her fortifications can be
strengthened; how her air, though excellent, can be made still
purer; and how, beautiful as she is, the beauty of her buildings
can still be increased. For two months together, during the heat
of summer, I have been with those who were appointed to drain the
public marshes; and though I was seventy-five years old, yet, such
is the efficacy of an orderly life, that I found myself none the
worse for the fatigue and inconveniences I suffered. It is also
a source of satisfaction to me that, having lost a considerable
portion of my income, I was enabled to repair it for my
grandchildren, by that most commendable of arts, agriculture. I did
this by infallible methods, worked out by dint of thought, without
any fatigue of body, and very little of mind. I owned an extensive
marshy district, where the air was so unwholesome that it was more
fit for snakes than men. I drained off the stagnant waters, and the
air became pure. People resorted thither so fast, that a village
soon grew up, laid out in regular streets, all terminating in a
large square, in the middle of which stands the church. The village
is divided by a wide and rapid branch of the river Brenta, on both
sides of which is a considerable extent of well-cultivated fertile
fields. I may say with truth, that in this place I have erected
an altar to God, and brought thither souls to adore him. When I
visit these people, the sight of these things affords me infinite
satisfaction and enjoyment. In my gardens, too, I always find
something to do that amuses me. It is also a great satisfaction to
me, that I can write treatises with my own hand, for the service of
others; and that, old as I am, I can study important, sublime, and
difficult subjects, without fatigue.”

His writings consisted of short treatises on health, agriculture,
architecture, etc. In an essay, entitled, “A Guide to Health,”
written when he was eighty-three years old, he says: “My faculties
are all perfect; particularly my palate, which now relishes better
the simple fare I eat than it formerly did the most luxurious
dishes, when I led an irregular life. Change of beds gives me no
uneasiness. I sleep everywhere soundly and quietly, and my dreams
are always pleasant. I climb hills from bottom to top, afoot, with
the greatest ease and unconcern. I am cheerful and good-humored,
being free from perturbations and disagreeable thoughts. Joy and
peace have so firmly fixed their residence in my bosom, that they
never depart from it.”

In another essay, called “A Compendium of a Sober Life,” he says:
“I now find myself sound and hearty, at the age of eighty-six. My
senses continue perfect; even my teeth, my voice, my memory, and my
strength. What is more, the powers of my mind do not diminish, as I
advance in years; because, as I grow older, I lessen the quantity
of my solid food. I greatly enjoy the beautiful expanse of this
visible world, which is really beautiful to those who know how to
view it with a philosophic eye. O, thrice-holy Sobriety, thou hast
conferred such favors on thine old man, that he better relishes
his dry bread, than he did the most dainty dishes in the days of
his youth! My spirits, not oppressed by too much food, are always
brisk, especially after eating; so that I am accustomed then to
sing a song, and afterward to write. I do not find myself the worse
for writing immediately after meals; I am not apt to be drowsy, and
my understanding is always clearer, the food I take being too small
in quantity to send up any fumes into my brain. O, how advantageous
it is to an old man to eat but little!”

In a letter to a friend, written when he was ninety-one, the old
man rejoices over his vigor and friskiness, as a boy does over his
exploits on the ice. He says: “The more I advance in years, the
sounder and heartier I grow, to the amazement of the world. My
memory, spirits, and understanding, and even my voice and my teeth,
remain unimpaired. I employ eight hours a day in writing treatises
with my own hand; and when I tell you that I write to be useful to
mankind, you may easily conceive what pleasure I enjoy. I spend
many hours daily in walking and singing. And O, how melodious my
voice has grown! Were you to hear me chant my prayers to my lyre,
after the example of David, I am certain it would give you great
pleasure, my voice is so musical.”

In an essay, entitled, “An Earnest Exhortation,” he says: “Arrived
at my ninety-fifth year, I still find myself sound and hearty,
content and cheerful. I eat with good appetite, and sleep soundly.
My understanding is clear, and my memory tenacious. I write seven
or eight hours a day, walk, converse, and occasionally attend
concerts. My voice, which is apt to be the first thing to fail,
grows so strong and sonorous, that I cannot help chanting my
prayers aloud, morning and evening, instead of murmuring them
to myself, as was formerly my custom. Apprehensions of death do
not disturb my mind, for I have no sensuality to nourish such
thoughts. I have reason to think that my soul, having so agreeable
a dwelling in my body, as not to meet with anything in it but
peace, love, and harmony, not only between its humors, but between
my reason and my senses, is exceedingly contented and pleased
with her present situation, and that, of course, it will require
many years to dislodge her. Whence I conclude that I have still
a series of years to live in health and spirits, and enjoy this
beautiful world, which is indeed beautiful to those who know how
to make it so by virtue and divine regularity of life. If men
would betake themselves to a sober, regular, and abstemious course
of life, they would not grow infirm in their old age, but would
continue strong and hearty as I am, and might attain to a hundred
years and upwards, as I expect will be my case. God has ordained
that whoever reaches his natural term should end his days without
sickness or pain, by mere dissolution. This is the natural way of
quitting mortal life to enter upon immortality, as will be my case.”

Once only, in the course of his long life, did Cornaro depart
from the strict rules he had laid down for himself. When he was
seventy-eight years old, his physician and family united in urging
him to take more nutrition; saying, that he required it to keep
up his strength, now that he was growing so old. He argued that
habit had become with him a second nature, and that it was unsafe
to change; moreover, that as the stomach grew more feeble, it
was reasonable to suppose that it ought to have less work to do,
rather than more. But as they continued to remonstrate, he finally
consented to add a little to his daily portion of food and wine. He
says: “In eight days, this had such an effect upon me, that from
being cheerful and brisk, I began to be peevish and melancholy, so
that nothing could please me. I was so strangely disposed, that I
neither knew what to say to others, nor what to do with myself.”
The result was a terrible fever, which lasted thirty-five days, and
reduced him almost to a skeleton. He attributes his recovery to the
abstinence he had practised for so many years. “During all which
time,” says he, “I never knew what sickness was; unless it might
be some slight indisposition, that continued merely for a day or
two.” He gives it, as the result of his long experience, that it
is well for people, as they become aged, to diminish the quantity
of solid food. He also advises that such nourishment as they take
should be less at any one time, and taken more frequently.

Never had longevity such a zealous panegyrist as this venerable
Italian. He says: “Some sensual, inconsiderate persons affirm that
long life is not a blessing; that the state of a man who has passed
his seventy-fifth year does not deserve to be called life, but is
rather a lingering death. This is a great mistake. And I, who have
experienced the salutary effects of temperate, regular habits, am
bound to prove that a man may enjoy a terrestrial paradise after
he is eighty years old. My own existence, so far from being a
lingering death, is a perpetual round of pleasures; and it is my
sincere wish that all men would endeavor to attain my age, in order
that they also may enjoy that period of life which of all others
is the most desirable. For that reason I will give an account of
my recreations, and of the relish I find in life at its present
advanced stage. I can climb my horse without any assistance, or
advantage of situation, and now and then I make one of a hunting
party suitable to my age and taste. I have frequent opportunities
to converse with intelligent, worthy gentlemen, well acquainted
with literature. When I have not such conversation to enjoy, I
betake myself to reading some good book. When I have read as much
as I like, I write, endeavoring in this, as in everything else,
to be of service to others. This I do in my own commodious house,
in the most beautiful quarter of this noble and learned city of
Padua, and around it are gardens supplied with running waters,
where I always find something to do that amuses me. Every spring
and autumn I go to a handsome hunting-lodge, belonging to me,
in the Euganean mountains, which is also adorned with fountains
and gardens. Then I visit my village in the plain, the soil of
which I redeemed from the marshes. I visit neighboring cities,
to meet old friends, and to converse with architects, painters,
sculptors, musicians, and husbandmen, from all of whom I learn
something that gives me satisfaction. I visit their new works,
and I revisit their old ones. I see churches, palaces, gardens,
fortifications, and antiquities, leaving nothing unobserved from
which either entertainment or instruction can be derived. But what
delights me most is the scenery I pass through, in my journeys
backwards and forwards. When I was young, and debauched by an
irregular life, I did not observe the beauties of nature; so that
I never knew, till I grew old, that the world was beautiful. That
no comfort may be wanting to the fulness of my years, I enjoy a
kind of immortality in a succession of descendants. When I return
home from my journeys, I am greeted by eleven grandchildren, the
oldest eighteen, the youngest two years old; all the offspring
of one father and mother. They all have good parts and morals,
are blessed with the best of health, and fond of learning. I play
with the youngest, and make companions of the older ones. Nature
has bestowed on them fine voices. I delight in hearing them sing
and play on various instruments, and I myself sing with them, for
I have a clearer and louder pipe now than at any other period of
life. Such gayety of spirits has been imparted by my temperate
life, that at my present age of eighty-three I have been able to
write a very entertaining comedy, abounding with innocent mirth and
pleasant jests. I declare I would not exchange my gray hairs, or my
mode of living, with any young men, even of the best constitutions,
who seek pleasure through the indulgence of their appetites. I take
an interest in seeing the draining of marshes and the improvement
of the harbor going on, and it is a great comfort to me that my
treatises on a temperate life have proved useful to others, as
many have assured me, both by word of mouth, and by letter. I
may further add, that I enjoy two lives at once. I enjoy this
terrestrial life, in consequence of sobriety and temperance; and,
by the grace of God, I enjoy the celestial life, which he makes me
anticipate by thought,--a thought so lively, that I affirm the
enjoyment to be of the utmost certainty. To die in the manner that
I expect to die is not really death, but merely a passage of the
soul from this earthly life to an infinitely perfect existence. The
prospect of terminating the high gratifications I have enjoyed here
gives me no uneasiness; it rather affords me pleasure, as it will
be only to make room for another glorious and immortal life. How
beautiful the life I lead! How happy my exit!”

His prophecy proved true. He lived to be one hundred and four years
old, and passed away without pain, sitting in his elbow-chair. His
wife,
             who was nearly as old as himself, survived
               him but a short time, and died easily.
                 They were buried in St. Anthony’s
                    Church, at Padua, in a very
                       unostentatious manner,
                         according to their
                            testamentary
                            directions.

[Illustration]

    When Dr. Priestley was young, he preached that old age was the
    happiest period of life; and when he was himself eighty, he
    wrote, “I have found it so.”




[Illustration]




ROBIN AND JEANNIE.

BY DORA GREENWELL.


  “Do you think of the days that are gone, Jeannie,
    As you sit by the fire at night?
  Do you wish that the morn would bring back the time,
    When your heart and your step were so light?”

  “I think of the days that are gone, Robin,
    And of all that I joyed in then;
  But the brightest that ever arose on me,
    I have never wished back again.”

  “Do you think of the hopes that are gone, Jeannie,
    As you sit by the fire at night?
  Do you gather them up, as they faded fast,
    Like buds with an early blight?”

  “I think of the hopes that are gone, Robin,
    And I mourn not their stay was fleet,
  For they fell as the leaves of the roses fall,
    And were even in falling sweet.”

  “Do you think of the friends that are gone, Jeannie,
    As you sit by the fire at night?
  Do you wish they were round you again once more,
    By the hearth that they made so bright?”

  “I think of the friends that are gone, Robin;
    They are dear to my heart as then;
  But the best and the dearest among them all
    I have never wished back again.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  “We have lived and loved together,
    Through many changing years;
  We have shared each other’s gladness,
    We have wept each other’s tears.

  “I have never known a sorrow
    That was long unsoothed by thee;
  For thy smile can make a summer,
    Where darkness else would be.

  “And let us hope the future
    As the past has been, will be;
  I will share with thee thy sorrows,
    And thou thy smiles with me.”

                        ANONYMOUS.




[Illustration]




A GOOD OLD AGE.

FROM MOUNTFORD’S EUTHANASY.


A good old age is a beautiful sight, and there is nothing earthly
that is as noble,--in my eyes, at least. And so I have often
thought. A ship is a fine object, when it comes up into a port,
with all its sails set, and quite safely, from a long voyage. Many
a thousand miles it has come, with the sun for guidance, and the
sea for its path, and the winds for its speed. What might have been
its grave, a thousand fathoms deep, has yielded it a ready way; and
winds that might have been its wreck have been its service. It has
come from another meridian than ours; it has come through day and
night; it has come by reefs and banks that have been avoided, and
past rocks that have been watched for. Not a plank has started, nor
one timber in it proved rotten. And now it comes like an answer to
the prayers of many hearts; a delight to the owner, a joy to many a
sailor’s family, and a pleasure to all ashore, that see it. It has
been steered over the ocean, and been piloted through dangers, and
now it is safe.

But still more interesting than this is a good life, as it
approaches its threescore years and ten. It began in the century
before the present; it has lasted on through storms and sunshine;
and it has been guarded against many a rock, on which shipwreck
of a good conscience might have been made. On the course it has
taken, there has been the influence of Providence; and it has been
guided by Christ, that day-star from on high. Yes, old age is even
a nobler sight than a ship completing a long, long voyage.

On a summer’s evening, the setting sun is grand to look at. In his
morning beams, the birds awoke and sang, men rose for their work,
and the world grew light. In his mid-day heat, wheat-fields grew
yellower, and fruits were ripened, and a thousand natural purposes
were answered, which we mortals do not know of. And at his setting,
all things seem to grow harmonious and solemn in his light.

But what is all this to the sight of a good life, in those years
that go down into the grave? In the early days of it, old events
had their happening; with the light of it many a house has been
brightened; and under the good influence of it, souls have grown
better, some of whom are now on high. And then the closing period
of such a life,--how almost awful is the beauty of it! From his
setting, the sun will rise again to-morrow; and he will shine on
men and their work, and on children’s children and their labors.
But when once finished, even a good life has no renewal in this
           world. It will begin again; but it will be in
                a new earth, and under new heavens.
                   Yes, nobler than a ship safely
                     ending a long voyage, and
                     sublimer than the setting
                       sun, is the old age of
                          a just, a kind,
                             and useful
                               life.

[Illustration]

    A good old man is the best antiquity; one whom time hath been
    thus long a working, and, like winter fruit, ripened when
    others are shaken down. He looks over his former life as a
    danger well past, and would not hazard himself to begin again.
    The next door of death saps him not, but he expects it calmly,
    as his turn in nature. All men look on him as a common father,
    and on old age, for his sake, as a reverent thing. He practises
    his experience on youth, without harshness or reproof, and in
    his council is good company. You must pardon him if he likes
    his own times better than these, because those things are
    follies to him now, that were wisdom then; yet he makes us of
    that opinion, too, when we see him, and conjecture those times
    by so good a relic.--BISHOP EARLE.




[Illustration]




MY PSALM.

BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.


  I mourn no more my vanished years:
    Beneath a tender rain,--
  An April rain of smiles and tears,--
    My heart is young again.

  The west winds blow, and, singing low,
    I hear the glad streams run;
  The windows of my soul I throw
    Wide open to the sun.

  No longer forward nor behind
    I look in hope or fear;
  But, grateful, take the good I find,
    The best of now and here.

  I plough no more a desert land,
    To harvest weed and tare;
  The manna dropping from God’s hand
    Rebukes my painful care.

  I break my pilgrim staff, I lay
    Aside the toiling oar;
  The angel sought so far away,
    I welcome at my door.

  The airs of Spring may never play
    Among the ripening corn,
  Nor freshness of the flowers of May
    Blow through the Autumn morn;--

  Yet shall the blue-eyed Gentian look
    Through fringèd lids to Heaven,
  And the pale Aster in the brook
    Shall see its image given;--

  The woods shall wear their robes of praise,
    The south-wind softly sigh;
  And sweet, calm days, in golden haze,
    Melt down the amber sky.

  Not less shall manly deed and word
    Rebuke an age of wrong;
  The graven flowers that wreathe the sword
    Make not the blade less strong.

  But smiting hands shall learn to heal,
    To build, as to destroy;
  Nor less my heart for others feel,
    That I the more enjoy.

  All as God wills, who wisely heeds
    To give or to withhold,
  And knoweth more of all my needs
    Than all my prayers have told.

  Enough that blessings undeserved
    Have marked my erring track,--
  That, wheresoe’er my feet have swerved,
    His chastening turned me back,--

  That more and more a Providence
    Of love is understood,
  Making the springs of time and sense
    Sweet with eternal good,--

  That death seems but a covered way
    Which opens into light,
  Wherein no blinded child can stray
    Beyond the Father’s sight,--

  That care and trial seem at last,
    Through Memory’s sunset air,
  Like mountain-ranges, overpast,
    In purple distance fair,--

  That all the jarring notes of life
    Seem blending in a psalm,
  And all the angles of its strife
    Slow rounding into calm.

  And so the shadows fall apart,
    And so the west winds play;
  And all the windows of my heart
    I open to the day.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Over the winter glaciers,
    I see the summer glow,
  And, through the wild piled snow-drift,
    The warm rosebuds below.

                        R. W. EMERSON.




[Illustration]




JOHN HENRY VON DANNECKER.

DERIVED FROM MRS. JAMESON’S SKETCHES, LONGFELLOW’S HYPERION, AND
FROM VARIOUS EUROPEAN LETTERS.


This celebrated German sculptor was born in 1758, at Stuttgard.
His father, who was one of the grooms of the Duke of Würtemberg,
was a stupid, harsh man. He thought it sufficient for his son to
know how to work in the stable; and how the gifted boy contrived to
pick up the rudiments of reading and writing, he could not remember
in after life. He had an extraordinary passion for drawing, and
being too poor to buy paper and pencils, he used to scrawl figures
with charcoal on the slabs of a neighboring stone-cutter. When
his father discovered this, he beat him for his idleness; but his
mother interfered to protect him. After he arrived at manhood,
he was accustomed to speak of her with the utmost tenderness and
reverence; saying that her promptings were the first softening
and elevating influences he ever knew. His bright countenance and
alert ways sometimes attracted the notice of the Duke, who saw him
running about the precincts of the palace, ragged and barefoot; but
he was far enough from foreseeing the wonderful genius that would
be developed in this child of one of his meanest servants.

When John Henry was about thirteen years old, the Duke established
a military school, into which poor boys, who manifested sufficient
intelligence, might be admitted. As soon as he heard of this
opportunity, he eagerly announced the intention of presenting
himself as a candidate. His surly father became very angry at
this, and told him he should stay at home and work. When the lad
persisted in saying he wanted to get a chance to learn something,
he beat him and locked him up. The persevering boy jumped out
of the window, collected several of his comrades together, and
proposed to them to go to the Duke and ask to be admitted into his
school. The whole court happened to be assembled at the palace when
the little troop marched up. Being asked by one of the attendants
what they wanted, Dannecker replied, “Tell his Highness the Duke
that we want to be admitted to the Charles School.” The Duke, who
was amused by this specimen of juvenile earnestness, went out
to inspect the boys. He led aside one after another, till only
Dannecker and two others remained. He used to say afterward that
he supposed himself rejected, and suffered such an agony of shame,
that he was on the point of running away and hiding himself,
when he discovered that those who had been led aside were the
rejected ones. The Duke ordered the successful candidates to go
next morning to the school, and dismissed them. The father did not
dare to resist such high authority, but he was so enraged with his
son, that he turned him out of the house and forbade him ever to
enter it again. But his good mother packed up a little bundle of
necessaries for him, accompanied him some distance on the road, and
parted with him with tears and blessings.

He did not find himself well situated in this school. The teachers
were accustomed to employ the poorer boys as servants, and he
was kept so constantly at work, that what little he learned was
mostly accomplished by stealth. But he met with one piece of great
good fortune. Schiller, who afterward became world-renowned as a
writer, was at this school. The two boys recognized kindred genius
in each other, and formed a friendship which lasted through life.
When he was fifteen years old, his remarkable talent for drawing
caused him to be removed to the School of Art in Stuttgard, where
he received instruction from Grubel, the sculptor. The next year,
he obtained the highest prize for a statue of Milo, modelled in
clay. The Duke, who had forgotten the bright, ragged boy that
formerly attracted his attention, was astonished to hear he had
carried off the highest honors of the School of Art. He employed
him to carve cornices and ornaments for two new palaces he was
building. Ten years were thus spent, during which he acquired a
great deal of mere mechanical skill and dexterity. But he longed
to improve himself by the sight of noble models; and at last he
obtained leave to travel. The allowance granted him by his ducal
patron was only one hundred and twenty dollars a year. With this
he set off for Paris, where he studied in the galleries of the
Louvre, often going the whole day without food, and in a dress
too shabby to be considered respectable. Those who saw him thus
perseveringly employed, passed by without recognizing the divine
soul that dwelt within the forlorn exterior. He afterward went to
Rome, where for some months, he wandered about among monuments
and ruins, friendless and homesick. But luckily his illustrious
countrymen, Herder and Goethe were there. He was introduced to
them, and their conversation imbued him with higher ideas of Art
than he had ever before received. The celebrated Italian sculptor,
Canova, also became acquainted with him, and often visited him
in his studio. There was but a year’s difference in their ages,
and their friendship became intimate. He remained five years in
Rome, and distinguished himself by the production of several fine
statues. He then returned to his native country, where he married.
At fifty years of age he was considered the greatest sculptor in
Germany. The Grand Duke ennobled him, as the phrase is; though it
seems absurd enough that wearing a ribbon in his button-hole, and
being allowed to put _von_ before the name his genius had rendered
illustrious, could add any nobility to a man like Dannecker.

His two most celebrated works are Ariadne riding on a panther, and
his statue of Christ. The circumstances under which the latter
was produced are very peculiar. Dannecker was a devout Lutheran,
and he often meditated upon a statue of the Mediator between God
and man as the highest problem of Art. He sought to embody it,
but felt that something was wanting. A child, who was accustomed
to run about his studio, came in while he was at his work. “Who
do you think that is?” said the artist, pointing to his model.
The child looked, and replied: “I don’t know; I guess it is some
great king.” Ah, thought Dannecker, I have made the expression of
power to predominate over love. The search after a perfect ideal
of the Divine and human combined took complete possession of
his mind. Filled with such thoughts, he fell asleep and dreamed
of a face and form transcending anything he had conceived. He
hastened to model it in clay, while the vision was still fresh in
his mind. When it was shown to the child, he at once exclaimed,
“That is the Redeemer. Mother reads to me about him, where he
says, ‘Suffer little children to come unto me.’” This confirmed
Dannecker in the belief that he had been directly inspired from
above. Others regarded it as a dream produced by the intense
activity of his thoughts concentrated upon one subject; but he
always viewed it as an immediate revelation. He was fifty-eight
years old when this sublime vision was presented to him in his
sleep, and for eight years he devoted to it all the energies of
mind and heart. He studied the Scriptures intently, and prayed
for Divine assistance. His enthusiasm was a compound of Religion
and Art. Under this combined influence, he said he felt as if he
were pursued by some irresistible power, which visited him in his
sleep, and often compelled him to rise in the night and embody the
ideas which had been presented to him. When he was sixty-six years
old, the glorious statue was completed. It is clothed in a simple
robe reaching to the feet. The hair is parted on the forehead, and
falls in ringlets over the shoulders. The head is purely moral and
intellectual in its outline. One hand is pressed upon the bosom,
the other extended, and the lips are partially unclosed, as if in
the act of speaking. The expression is said to be a remarkable
combination of majesty and tenderness, exciting involuntary
reverence in all who look upon it.

Mrs. Jameson visited Dannecker in 1830. The statue was still
standing in his studio. She says: “He told me that the figure had
visited him in a dream three several times, and that he firmly
believed he had been predestined to the work, and divinely
inspired. I shall not easily forget the countenance of the good and
gifted old man, as he leaned on the pedestal, with his cap in his
hand, and his long gray hair waving round his face, looking up at
his work with a mixture of reverence and exultation.”

This remarkable statue was purchased by the Emperor Alexander,
and is now in Russia. A year after its completion, he made a
colossal statue of the Evangelist John, for the royal chapel at
Rothenberg. He had for many years been Professor of the Fine Arts
at the Academy in Stuttgard, and the instructions he was obliged to
give there, combined with the labors of his studio, kept him very
constantly occupied. Mrs. Jameson again visited him in 1833, when
he was seventy five years old. She says: “A change had come over
him. His trembling hand could no longer grasp the mallet or guide
the chisel. His fine benevolent countenance wore a childish smile,
and was only now and then crossed by a gleam of awakened memory
or thought. Yet he seemed perfectly happy. He walked backward and
forward from his statue of Christ to his bust of Schiller, with an
unwearied self-complacency, in which there was something mournful,
yet delightful. While I was looking at the magnificent head of
Schiller, he took my hand, and trembling with emotion, said, ‘We
were friends from boyhood. I worked upon it with love and grief;
and one can do no more.’ I took leave of Dannecker with emotion. I
shall never see him again. But he is one of those who cannot die.
Canova, after he was a melancholy invalid, visited his studio, and
was so much struck by his childlike simplicity, his pure, unworldly
nature, his genuine goodness, and lively, happy temperament, that
he gave him the surname of _Il Beato_, The Blessed. And surely if
that epithet can with propriety be bestowed upon any mortal, it
is on him whose long life has been one of labor and of love; who
has left behind him lasting memorials of his genius; who has never
profaned to any unworthy purpose the talents which God has given
him, but, in the midst of all the beautiful and exciting influences
of Poetry and Art, has kept, from youth to age, a soul serene, a
conscience and a life pure in the sight of God and man.”

Longfellow, in his prose-poem called “Hyperion,” thus introduces
the renowned German artist, on a calm Sabbath forenoon:--“Flemming
stole out into the deserted street, and went to visit the veteran
sculptor Dannecker. He found him in his parlor, sitting alone,
with his psalm-book and the reminiscences of his long life. As
Flemming entered, he arose from the sofa and tottered toward him;
a venerable old man, of low stature, and dressed in a loose white
jacket, with a face like Franklin’s, his white hair flowing over
his shoulders, and a pale blue eye.

“‘So you are from America,’ said he. ‘I have never been in America.
I shall never go there. I am now too old. I have been in Paris and
in Rome. But that was long ago. I am now seventy-eight years old.’

“He took Flemming by the hand, and made him sit by his side on
the sofa. And Flemming felt a mysterious awe creep over him, on
touching the hand of the good old man, who sat so serenely amid
the gathering shade of years, and listened to life’s curfew-bell,
telling, with eight and seventy solemn strokes, that the hour
had come, when the fires of all earthly passion must be quenched
within, and man must prepare to lie down and rest till morning.

“‘You see,’ he continued, ‘my hands are cold. They were warmer
once. I am now an old man.’

“‘Yet these are the hands that sculptured the beautiful Ariadne and
the Panther,’ replied Flemming. ‘The soul never grows old.’

“‘Nor does Nature,’ said the old man, pleased with this allusion to
his great work, and pointing to the green trees before his window.
‘This pleasure I have left to me. My sight is still good. I can
even distinguish objects on the side of yonder mountain. My hearing
is also unimpaired. For all which I thank God.’

“Directing Flemming’s attention to a fine engraving which hung on
the opposite wall of the room, he continued: ‘That is an engraving
of Canova’s Religion. I love to sit here and look at it, for hours
together. It is beautiful. He made the statue for his native town,
where they had no church, until he built them one. He placed the
statue in it. He sent me this engraving as a present. Ah, he was a
dear, good man! The name of his native town I have forgotten. My
memory fails me. I cannot remember names.’

“Fearful that he had disturbed the old man in his morning
devotions, Flemming did not remain long; but he took his leave
with regret. There was something impressive in the scene he had
witnessed;--this beautiful old age of the artist; sitting by the
open window, in the bright summer morning; the labor of life
accomplished; the horizon reached, where heaven and earth meet;
thinking it was angel’s music when he heard the church bells
ring; himself too old to go. As he walked back to his chamber, he
thought within himself whether he likewise might not accomplish
something which should live after him;--might not bring something
permanent out of this fast-fleeting life of man, and then sit
down, like the artist, in serene old age, and fold his hands in
silence. He wondered how a man felt when he grew so old, that he
could no longer go to church, but must sit at home, and read the
Bible in large print. His heart was full of indefinite longings,
mingled with regrets; longings to accomplish something worthy of
life; regret that as yet he had accomplished nothing, but had
felt and dreamed only. Thus the warm days in spring bring forth
passion-flowers and forget-me-nots. It is only after mid-summer,
when the days grow shorter and hotter, that fruit begins to appear.
Then the heat of the day brings forward the harvest; and after the
harvest, the leaves fall, and there is a gray frost.”

Dannecker lived eighty-five years. His last drawing, done when he
was extremely old, represented
           an angel guiding an aged man from the grave,
              and pointing to him the opening heaven.
                 It was a beautiful occupation to
                     console the last days of
                       this truly Christian
                             artist’s
                               life.

[Illustration]

    When a good man dies,--one that hath lived innocently,--then
    the joys break forth through the clouds of sickness, and the
    conscience stands upright, and confesses the glories of God,
    and owns so much integrity that it can hope for pardon and
    obtain it too. Then the sorrows of sickness do but untie the
    soul from its chain, and let it go forth, first into liberty
    and then into glory.

                                                      JEREMY TAYLOR.




[Illustration]




THE KITTEN AND THE FALLING LEAVES.

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.


  That way look, my infant, lo!
  What a pretty baby-show!
  See the kitten on the wall,
  Sporting with the leaves that fall!
  Withered leaves--one, two, and three--
  From the lofty Elder-tree!
  --See the kitten! how she starts,
  Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts,
  First at one, and then its fellow,
  Just as light and just as yellow!
  Such a light of gladness breaks,
  Pretty kitten, from thy freaks,
  Spreads, with such a living grace,
  O’er my little Laura’s face!
  Yes, the sight so stirs and charms
  Thee, baby, laughing in my arms,
  That almost I could repine
  That your transports are not mine;
  That I do not wholly fare
  Even as ye do, thoughtless pair!
  And I wall have my careless season,
  Spite of melancholy reason;
  Will walk through life in such a way,
  That, when time brings on decay,
  Now and then I may possess
  Hours of perfect gladsomeness.
  --Pleased by any random toy;
  By a kitten’s busy joy,
  Or an infant’s laughing eye,
  Sharing in the ecstasy.
  I would fare like that, or this;
  Find my wisdom in my bliss;
  Keep the sprightly soul awake;
  And have faculties to take,
  Even from things by sorrow wrought,
  Matter for a jocund thought;
  Spite of care and spite of grief,
  To gambol with Life’s falling leaf.

       *       *       *       *       *

  His sixty summers--what are they in truth?
  By Providence peculiarly blest,
  With him the strong hilarity of youth
  Abides, despite gray hairs, a constant guest.
  His sun has veered a point toward the west,
  But light as dawn his heart is glowing yet,--
  That heart the simplest, gentlest, kindliest, best,
  Where truth and manly tenderness are met
  With faith and heavenward hope, the suns that never set.

                        HENRY TAYLOR.




[Illustration]




DR. DODDRIDGE’S DREAM.


Dr. Doddridge was on terms of very intimate friendship with Dr.
Samuel Clarke, and in religious conversation they spent many happy
hours together. Among other matters, a very favorite topic was the
intermediate state of the soul, and the probability that at the
instant of dissolution it was not introduced into the presence of
all the heavenly hosts, and the splendors around the throne of God.
One evening, after a conversation of this nature, Dr. Doddridge
retired to rest with his mind full of the subject discussed, and,
in the ‘visions of the night,’ his ideas were shaped into the
following beautiful form. He dreamed that he was at the house of
a friend, when he was suddenly taken dangerously ill. By degrees
he seemed to grow worse, and at last to expire. In an instant he
was sensible that he exchanged the prison-house and sufferings
of mortality for a state of liberty and happiness. Embodied in
a splendid aerial form, he seemed to float in a region of pure
light. Beneath him lay the earth; but not a glittering city or
village, the forest or the sea, was visible. There was naught to be
seen below save the melancholy group of friends, weeping around his
lifeless remains.

Himself thrilled with delight, he was surprised at their tears, and
attempted to inform them of his change; but, by some mysterious
power, utterance was denied; and, as he anxiously leaned over the
mourning circle, gazing fondly upon them, and struggling to speak,
he rose silently upon the air; their forms became more and more
distant, and gradually melted away from his sight. Reposing upon
golden clouds, he found himself swiftly mounting the skies, with a
venerable figure at his side guiding his mysterious movement, in
whose countenance he remarked the lineaments of youth and age were
blended together with an intimate harmony and majestic sweetness.
They travelled through a vast region of empty space, until at
length the battlements of a glorious edifice shone in the distance;
and as its form rose brilliant and distinct among the far-off
shadows that flitted across their path, the guide informed him,
that the palace he beheld was for the present to be his mansion of
rest. Gazing upon its splendor, he replied, that while on earth
he had heard that eye had not seen, nor had the ear heard, nor
could it enter into the heart of man to conceive, the things which
God had prepared for those who love him but, notwithstanding the
building to which they were then rapidly approaching was superior
to anything he had ever before seen, yet its grandeur did not
exceed the conceptions he had formed.

They were already at the door, and the guide, without reply,
introduced him into a spacious apartment, at the extremity of which
stood a table covered with a snow-white cloth, a golden cup, and a
cluster of grapes, and there he said he must remain, for he would
receive in a short time a visit from the Lord of the mansion, and
that, during the interval before his arrival, the apartment would
furnish him with sufficient entertainment and instruction. The
guide vanished, and he was left alone. He began to examine the
decorations of the room, and observed that the walls were adorned
with a number of pictures. Upon nearer inspection, he found, to
his astonishment, that they formed a complete biography of his own
life. Here he saw, upon the canvas, that angels, though unseen,
had ever been his familiar attendants; that, sent by God, they had
sometimes preserved him from immediate peril. He beheld himself
first as an infant just expiring, when his life was prolonged by an
angel gently breathing into his nostrils. Most of the occurrences
here delineated were perfectly familiar to his recollection, and
unfolded many things which he had never before understood, and
which had perplexed him with many doubts and much uneasiness.
Among others, he was particularly struck with a picture in which he
was represented as falling from his horse, when death would have
been inevitable, had not an angel received him in his arms, and
broken the force of his descent. These merciful interpositions of
God filled him with joy and gratitude; and his heart overflowed
with love as he surveyed in them all an exhibition of goodness and
mercy far beyond all that he had imagined.

Suddenly his attention was arrested by a rap at the door. The Lord
of the mansion had arrived. The door opened and he entered. So
powerful and so overwhelming, and withal of such singular beauty,
was his appearance, that he sank down at his feet, completely
overcome by his majestic presence. His Lord gently raised him from
the ground, and taking his hands led him forward to the table. He
pressed with his fingers the juice of the grapes into the cup, and
after having drank himself, presented it to him, saying, “This is
the new wine in my Father’s kingdom.” No sooner had he partaken,
than all uneasy sensations vanished. Perfect love had cast out
fear, and he conversed with his Saviour as an intimate friend.
Like the silver rippling of the summer sea, he heard fall from
his lips the grateful approbation: “Thy labors are over; thy work
is approved; rich and glorious is thy reward.” Thrilled with an
unspeakable bliss, that glided into the very depth of his soul,
he suddenly saw glories upon glories bursting upon his view. The
Doctor awoke. Tears of rapture from this joyful interview
             were rolling down his cheeks. Long did the
                lively impressions of this charming
                  dream remain upon his mind, and
                     never could he speak of it
                      without emotions of joy
                          and tenderness.

[Illustration]

    Death can only take away the sorrowful from our affections.
    The flower expands; the colorless film that enveloped it falls
    off and perishes. We may well believe this; and, believing
    it, let us cease to be disquieted for their absence, who have
    but retired into another chamber. We are like those who have
    overslept the hour: when we rejoin our friends, there is only
    the more joyance and congratulation. Would we break a precious
    vase because it is as capable of containing the bitter as the
    sweet? No: the very things which touch us the most sensibly
    are those which we should be the most reluctant to forget. The
    noble mansion is most distinguished by the beautiful images it
    retains of beings passed away; and so is the noble mind.

                                               WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.




[Illustration]




THE OLD PSALM-TUNE.

BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.


  You asked, dear friend, the other day,
    Why still my charméd ear
  Rejoiceth in uncultured tone
    That old psalm-tune to hear.

  I’ve heard full oft, in foreign lands,
    The grand orchestral strain,
  Where music’s ancient masters live,
    Revealed on earth again:

  Where breathing, solemn instruments,
    In swaying clouds of sound,
  Bore up the yearning, trancéd soul,
    Like silver wings around;--

  I’ve heard in old St. Peter’s dome,
    When clouds of incense rise,
  Most ravishing the choral swell
    Mount upward to the skies.

  And well I feel the magic power,
    When skilled and cultured art
  Its cunning webs of sweetness weaves
    Around the captured heart.

  But yet, dear friend, though rudely sung,
    That old psalm-tune hath still
  A pulse of power beyond them all
    My inmost soul to thrill.

  Those tones, that halting sound to you,
    Are not the tones I hear;
  But voices of the loved and lost
    Then meet my longing ear.

  I hear my angel mother’s voice,--
    Those were the words she sung;
  I hear my brother’s ringing tones,
    As once on earth they rung;

  And friends that walk in white above
    Come round me like a cloud,
  And far above those earthly notes
    Their singing sounds aloud.

  There may be discord, as you say;
    Those voices poorly ring;
  But there’s no discord in the strain
    Those upper spirits sing.

  For they who sing are of the blest,
    The calm and glorified,
  Whose hours are one eternal rest
    On heaven’s sweet floating tide.

  Their life is music and accord;
    Their souls and hearts keep time
  In one sweet concert with the Lord,--
    One concert vast, sublime.

  And through the hymns they sang on earth
    Sometimes a sweetness falls,
  On those they loved and left below,
    And softly homeward calls.

  Bells from our own dear fatherland,
    Borne trembling o’er the sea--
  The narrow sea that they have crossed,
    The shores where we shall be.

  O sing, sing on! beloved souls;
    Sing cares and griefs to rest;
  Sing, till entranced we arise
    To join you ’mid the blest.

       *       *       *       *       *

      O, thus forever sing to me!
        O, thus forever!
  The green bright grass of childhood bring to me
    Flowing like an emerald river,
    And the bright blue skies above!
    O, sing them back as fresh as ever,
    Into the bosom of my love,--
    The sunshine and the merriment,
    The unsought, evergreen content,
      Of that never cold time,
  The joy, that, like a clear breeze, went
    Through and through the old time!

                        J. R. LOWELL




[Illustration]




THE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY.

    [It is well known that all the books of the Middle Ages were
    written by monks, and preserved in manuscript; printing being
    then an unknown art. These patient scribes had plenty of
    leisure, and not unfrequently an eye for artistic beauty,
    especially in the gorgeous style. Hence many monastic
    manuscripts were richly illuminated, as the phrase is, with
    Initial Letters of silver or gold, often surrounded with quaint
    devices, painted in glowing tints of blue, crimson, and purple.
    Paper was not then invented, and parchment was scarce. Monks
    generally held Greeks and Romans in contempt, as heathen, and
    therefore did not scruple to supply themselves with writing
    material by erasing the productions of classic authors. Early
    in the nineteenth century it was announced that Signor Maio,
    an Italian librarian, had discovered valuable Greek and Latin
    fragments concealed under monkish manuscripts, and that, by
    chemical processes, he could remove the later writing and bring
    the ancient to the surface. In this way, “The Republic,” of
    Cicero, deemed one of his finest works, was brought out from
    under a Commentary of St. Augustine on the Psalms of David.
    Such parchments are called _Palimpsests_; from two Greek words,
    which signify erased and re-written. The discovery was very
    exciting to the scholastic world, and many learned men entered
    into it with absorbing interest. Several of the books of Livy’s
    lively and picturesque History of Rome are lost; and it was a
    cherished hope among scholars that they might be discovered by
    this new process. This explanation is necessary to help some
    readers to a right understanding of the following story, which
    is abridged and slightly varied from an English book, entitled,
    “Stories by an Archæologist.”]


My dear friend, Dubois d’Erville, whose talents might have rendered
him remarkable in any walk of literature, allowed the whole of his
faculties to be absorbed in days, nights, years of research, upon
one special point of literary interest. At school, he had become
imbued with a love for classic authors, which, with regard to
his favorite Livy, kindled into a passion. He sought eagerly for
accounts of discoveries of lost works in _palimpsest_ manuscripts.
Finally, he relinquished all other objects of pursuit, and spent
many years traversing Europe and Asia, visiting the public
libraries and old monasteries, in search of ancient manuscripts.
After a long time, when he was forgotten by family, friends,
and acquaintances, he returned to Paris. Little was known of
his wanderings; but there was a rumor that he formed a romantic
marriage, and that his devoted wife had travelled with him among
the monasteries of Asia Minor, encountering many hardships and
dangers. No one but himself knew where she died.

When he returned to Paris, he brought with him an only child, a
girl of nineteen. She had memorable beauty, and great intelligence;
but these were less noticed than her simple manners, and tender
devotion to her father, whom she almost adored. He took a suite
of apartments in the third story of a house, which, before the
Revolution, had been the hotel of a nobleman, and surrounded by
extensive gardens. It was in the old and solitary Rue Cassette. The
gardens had been let out to cow-keepers; but within the enclosure
of the house remained some noble trees and flowering shrubs. These
apartments had been selected by his daughter Marcelline, on account
of the graceful branches of the old lime-trees, which reached
close to the windows, and furnished a pleasant shade in summer,
when birds chirped gayly among the green foliage. Even in winter,
a robin would sometimes sing snatches of song, among the naked
branches, as if in return for the crumbs which his pretty patroness
never failed to place on the window-sill.

Beyond Marcelline’s chamber was a little sitting-room, and then
came a rather large apartment, where Dubois pursued his studies,
surrounded with piles of old vellum, and dusty and worm-eaten
manuscripts of all descriptions. The floor was thus littered in all
directions, except in a small semicircle near one of the windows,
where an open space was preserved for a few chairs and a table.

They had but one servant, an old woman, who had been cook
in Dubois’s family in the days of his boyhood, and whom he
accidentally met when he returned to Paris. Old Madeleine formed a
pleasant link between the present and the past. Often, when she
passed through his study, he would remind her of some prank he had
played in early days, and ask her if she remembered it, with such
a frank, good-natured smile, that the old servant would smile too;
though there was always a tinge of melancholy in her recollections
of his boyish roguery. Often, when she left the room, she would
shake her head, and mutter to herself, “Ah, young Monsieur Armand
was so good, so kind, so gentle! Only to think that he should leave
all his family and friends, and pass his life nobody knows where!
Ah! it is very mysterious. And the bright, curly hair, that I used
to pat with such fondness, to think that I should never see him
again, till all that is left of it is a few silver locks about his
temples!” She tried to gain from Marcelline some particulars about
her mother; but the young girl had only a vague recollection of a
form that used to press her to her heart, during journeys through
strange countries, and who had long disappeared. She remembered
something of a time when her father’s tall, upright figure suddenly
bent under the weight of some great sorrow, from which it never
rose erect again. Then, when she grew older, they lived for years
in Italian cities, where there were great libraries; whence they
came to Paris.

Nothing could be more delightful than the affectionate congeniality
between father and daughter. Their favorite pursuits, though
different, had a kind of affinity which rendered their quiet
existence very pleasant. Marcelline had a taste for painting; and
her father’s mania for old manuscripts furnished her with many
opportunities for examining the exquisite miniatures and ornamental
illuminations, with which monkish manuscripts were frequently
enriched. When new manuscripts arrived, which they did almost
daily, her first impulse was to examine whether they contained any
illuminations worthy of note; and if so, to copy them with the
utmost care and accuracy. She had thus formed a very beautiful
collection, in which she felt an interest almost as enthusiastic as
that of her father in his long pursuit of a treasure, which, like
the horizon, seemed always in sight, but was never reached.

In the midst of the charming, harmonious routine of this little
household, slight contentions would sometimes arise; but they
were sure to end, like the quarrels of lovers, in a renewal of
love. Sometimes a manuscript arrived which contained exquisite
illuminations; but Dubois, thinking it might be a _palimpsest_,
regarded the ornaments as so many abominations, concealing some
treasure of classic literature. So the mediæval romance, with
its matchless miniatures, and intricate borderings, glowing with
gilding, purple, and crimson, would soon disappear beneath the
sponge, soap, and acids of the indefatigable seeker after The Lost
Books of Livy. These occasions were sad trials for Marcelline. She
would beg for a week’s delay, just to copy the most beautiful of
the illuminations. But if Dubois thought he could perceive traces
of erasure under the gorgeous ornaments, he was as impatient as
a miner who fancies he sees indications of a vein of gold. When
Marcelline saw the sponge trembling in his hand, so eager to
commence the work of obliteration, she would turn away with a
painful sense of what seemed to her a cruel desecration. She felt
that the sacrifice was due to the cause in which her father had
enlisted all the energies of his life; but the ruthless destruction
of all those quaint and delicately beautiful works of art caused
her a pang she could not quite conceal. In spite of herself, a tear
would glisten in her eye; and the moment her father perceived it,
his resolution melted. He would place the manuscript in her hand,
and say, “There, there, my child! a whole week if you want it; and
then bring it to me, if you have quite done with it.” Then she
would reply, “No, no, dear father. Your object is too important
to be hindered by the whims of a foolish girl.” He would press it
upon her, and she would refuse it; and as the combat of love went
on, the old man’s eyes would fill with tears. Then Marcelline would
give way, and take the proffered manuscript; and Dubois, with all
the attentive politeness of a young lover, would arrange her desk,
and her pieces of new vellum, and place the volume in a good light.
Not till he had seen her fairly at work at her charming task,
could he tear himself away; and then not without pressing her hand,
and nodding to her, as though they were going to part for some long
period. She would nod too; and then they both nodded together,
smiling at their own affectionate folly, with tears glistening in
their eyes. Then Dubois would go to his study, and among his heaps
of manuscripts, bound and unbound, rolled or folded, he would soon
be immersed in the intricacies of his old pursuit.

After a while, the even current of their happy life became varied
by the visits of a third person. When old Madeleine came to live
with them, Dubois often questioned her concerning the relatives and
friends he had known in his boyhood. Her answer was, invariably,
“Dead.” It seemed as if all the old he inquired for were dead,
and all the young either dead or scattered. During one of these
conversations, he said, “What has become of Uncle Debaye, who used
to prophesy that I should be a member of the Academy, and one of
the illustrious men of France? Ah, he was a pleasant specimen of
the old bachelor and the _bon vivant_! Where is he?” “He is dead,
too,” replied Madeleine; “but he did not remain an old bachelor and
a _bon vivant_. He married, some two and twenty years ago, and gave
up his old luxurious habits for the sake of supporting his pretty
young wife. He even left off cigars and snuff, to supply her with
little luxuries. She is dead, too. But they had a very pretty
child, little Hyppolite, who is a young man now.” “Then it seems
that I have one relative remaining,” said Dubois; “but I suppose
he has gone off to America, or Australia, or somewhere.” “No,
Monsieur,” rejoined Madeleine, “he is in Paris. He got a situation
out by the Barrière du Trone, where he has two thousand francs a
year, and apartments in the factory to live in besides. I often
meet him on a Sunday, in the gardens of the Luxembourg, and many a
forty sous has he given me.”

Dubois was pleased to find that he had one relative left,
and Madeleine was commissioned to tell him that his father’s
brother-in-law, his uncle by marriage, had returned to Paris, and
would be glad to see him. The young man came soon after, and father
and daughter were both pleased with their new-found kinsman. He was
not very intellectual or learned; but he was lively, good-natured,
and good-looking. He brought the living, moving world of the
present into those secluded apartments, so entirely consecrated
to the works and thoughts of ages long past. His free-and-easy
conversation, without a single phrase smacking of libraries, or
art-galleries, or any kind of learning, seemed a bright sparkling
stream of young careless life. His uncle listened willingly to
his gossiping anecdotes, told with a certain appreciation of the
comic, in a clear, ringing voice, and with good-natured laughter.
Hyppolite became a very welcome visitor; and, after a while, if he
did not appear on the days when he was regularly expected, a shadow
of disappointment was cast over the little household in the Rue
Cassette.

Thus things went on for some time. Marcelline daily added to
her collection of exquisite fac-similes, and her father labored
diligently in the cause to which he had devoted his life. He did
not obtain the result he so ardently desired; but his perseverance
was not without reward. On two occasions he discovered works of
great importance, in a literary point of view, covered over with
a mass of old law transactions; and the sums he obtained for them
enabled him greatly to increase his stock of manuscripts. He soon
became so well known to all who dealt in such articles, that every
new importation was offered to him, before it was shown elsewhere.

Meanwhile Marcelline received increasing pleasure from the visits
of Hyppolite. She began to suspect that the trivial chat uttered
in that fresh young voice, with occasional peals of ringing
laughter, possessed for her a greater charm than the noble words
of her father, always teeming with knowledge and interest of
various kinds. She shrunk from admitting this to herself. She would
not believe it, but she had an uneasy suspicion of it. As for
Hyppolite, his walk of two or three miles, to visit his new-found
relatives, became his greatest pleasure. He found innumerable
opportunities of making the Rue Cassette the shortest cut to one
or other of the distant quarters of Paris, where the business of
his employers carried him, though in fact it was often miles out
of his way. To gratify Marcelline’s peculiar taste, he frequently
brought her ornaments cut from the pages of old illuminated
manuscripts. When asked where he obtained them, he would merely
laugh, and say he would bring some more soon. Dubois began to
remonstrate against the barbarism of mutilating manuscripts in that
way; but Hyppolite would point to the piles of manuscripts from
which he had washed both ornaments and writing, and would put on
such a comic look, and laugh so merrily, that his uncle could not
help laughing, too.

One calm summer evening, Dubois had gone to the busy part of Paris,
and Marcelline sat at the window, busily employed in copying a
noble group of illuminated letters from a gorgeous manuscript of
the twelfth century, which stood on the desk before her. The window
was open, and the air gently moved the leaves of crisp vellum, with
their antique writing and their curious enrichments. The massive
silver clasps of the great folio hung back and glistened in the
evening light. As the young artist looked up at her model, she felt
tempted to make a drawing of the whole superb volume, instead of
the especial group of letters she was copying. The foliage of the
lime-trees moved gently in the warm evening breeze, and a linnet,
hidden in its recesses, was singing his vesper hymn. Marcelline
felt very happy. The balmy hour, the congenial employment, and
the bright halo of her twenty young years, threw around her an
atmosphere of soft, pure, gentle pleasure. Thoughts of more homely
things mingled with her poetic mood. She thought of the choice
little supper Madeleine was preparing for her father, and she tried
to conjecture when he would arrive.

The current of her ideas was interrupted by the ringing of the
bell on the landing, and Madeleine announced the arrival of
Monsieur Hyppolite. An uncontrollable thrill lifted her heart
with one great bound. For a moment the illuminated volume, the
sweet summer breeze, the tuneful linnet, and the little supper for
her father, were all forgotten. By a strong effort she recovered
herself, however, and received Hyppolite as usual; perhaps a
little more coolly, for she was inwardly shocked to find that his
presence had power, even for a moment, to obliterate the pleasures
and affections she had always deemed so sacred. He brought two
beautifully illuminated letters, that had evidently formed part
of a very fine Italian manuscript. Being in an unusual style of
art, they attracted her attention, and diverted her thoughts from
the channel they had taken. She reseated herself at her work;
and while he watched her skilful pencil tracing the intricate
interlacings of various and many-colored lines and branches, he
sought to entertain her with his usual light chat. But Marcelline
did not respond so gayly as she was accustomed to do, and he
grew unwontedly silent; so silent, that the song of the linnet
was heard again, and no other sound disturbed the stillness. At
last, Hyppolite, with a great effort, and as if something choked
his usual clear utterance, said, “Marcelline, you must have long
perceived that I--” she rose hastily, exclaiming, “O don’t say that
word! _Don’t_ say it! To break the holy spell of filial affection
which has always bound my heart, would be sacrilege.” But Hyppolite
knelt at her feet, and poured forth the fervid language that comes
to all when the heart is kindled by a first love. Marcelline turned
away her head and wept. The bitter tears, not without sweetness,
relieved the deep trouble of her heart. She resumed her seat,
and told her cousin decidedly, but kindly, that he must never
speak to her of love while her dear father lived; that she could
never allow any earthly affection to come between her and him.
The young man, in the midst of his disappointment, could not but
wish that his uncle might live long; for he truly loved his genial
nature, and regarded his great learning with almost superstitious
veneration. He held out his hand, saying, “My cousin, it is the
hand of friendship.” She pressed it kindly, and gently admonished
him that his visits must be less frequent. After a brief struggle
he resigned himself to her guidance, and recovered his equanimity,
if not his usual gayety. All was peaceful and pleasant when Dubois
returned, and Hyppolite was urged to stay and partake of the choice
little supper.

The household continued to go on in the old quiet way, varied
occasionally by visits from antiquarians and learned men. On
such occasions, it was charming to hear Dubois descant on his
favorite topics with the enthusiasm and beautiful flow of language
which they always excited. Marcelline was often appealed to in
these discussions; for her intimate knowledge of the beauties
of illumination enabled her to judge the age of a manuscript,
by delicate peculiarities in its ornaments, more readily than
learned men could do by the character of the writing or the nature
of the subject. Hyppolite, who was sometimes present by special
invitation, would sit apart, drinking in every delicate epithet and
daintly selected word uttered by his cousin, as though they were
heaven-distilled drops of nectar.

One morning, Dubois rushed into his daughter’s apartment, eagerly
exclaiming, “Eureka! Eureka! I have found it! I have found it! My
name will go down to posterity joined with that of Livy! At last
I have found The Lost Books!” Joyfully, he drew his daughter into
his study, and there, spread upon the floor, were several sheets of
vellum still wet from the action of his sponge. The more recent
writing had been removed, and traces of a nearly erased manuscript,
apparently of the tenth century, was gradually becoming more
distinct under the influence of a preparation he had applied. The
old man drew himself up as he pointed to it, and looking proudly at
his daughter, said, “The labor of my life has been well expended.
It will be _my_ great privilege to be the first among moderns to
read the whole of the noble history of Livy; for I believe the
_whole_ is there.” He insisted that Hyppolite should be sent for to
hear the glad tidings. The good-natured youth hastened to the Rue
Cassette, and congratulated his uncle upon his great discovery. He
did not, indeed, understand the importance of the recovered annals,
for he thought we had a tolerably complete history of Rome without
these famous Lost Books, but he cordially sympathized with the joy
of his uncle and cousin. It was a day marked with “a white stone”
in the annals of the quiet little family. In honor of the occasion,
a bottle of the choice wine called Chateaux Margaux, was placed
on the generally frugal little dinner-table, and the sun traced
upon it bright lights and shadows through the branches of the
lime-trees, as if to aid in the celebration.

Day by day, more pages of the _palimpsest_ were prepared, and the
ancient text developed itself so well, that the exulting Dubois
resolved to invite his most learned friends to a grand evening
reunion, in honor of his discovery. A lithographed circular was
accordingly prepared, and sent round in due form. It brought
together a select party of the knowing ones in such matters. Dubois
was all smiles and urbanity. In the fluent language, of which he
had extraordinary command, he related the successive details of
his discovery. He deemed himself the most fortunate of men. His
heart was running over with enthusiasm. His hearers were charmed
with the copious flood of eloquence that he poured forth without
stint, full of the deepest erudition, yet warmed and embellished by
a pervading gleam of amiable exhilaration, and innocent exultation
over the triumphant result of his life-long labors. The sheets of
the recovered manuscript were placed in a good light, and eagerly
examined through many pairs of glittering spectacles and powerful
microscopes. It obviously related to that portion of Roman history
lost from the books of Livy, but many doubts were expressed
whether it were written by that great historian. Peculiarities of
orthography and style were adduced to prove that the writer must
have been a monk. But Dubois ingeniously converted every objection
into an additional proof that they had before them the identical
Lost Books of Livy.

The animated discussion was interrupted by the entrance of
Madeleine, who said that two men were at the door, with old
manuscripts to sell. Dubois could never resist the temptation
to examine musty vellum, and he ordered them to be shown in. The
manuscripts did not prove to be of any value; and Madeleine was
very glad to close the door upon the intruders, for she did not
like their looks. A similar impression seemed to have been made on
the company; for several of them remarked that it was hazardous to
introduce men of that stamp into a room filled with books clasped
with silver, and with many other ancient articles of curious
workmanship, some of them in the precious metals. But Dubois
laughed at the idea that anybody would think of robbing a poor
book-antiquarian of his musty treasures, though some of them were
clasped with silver.

The dimensions of the table were enlarged by piles of huge folios,
and Madeleine spread it with choice viands, in the discussion
of which the style and orthography of Livy were for a while
forgotten. The lively sallies of Hyppolite, his funny anecdotes,
and descriptions of practical jokes, began to entertain the guests
more than their own conversation. His merry, thrilling laugh became
infectious. First, his pretty cousin joined in with her silvery
treble; then Dubois; then all of them. No one, listening to this
hilarious chorus, would have supposed the company consisted of
the most profound scholars that ever enlightened the halls of the
Institute or the Academy.

Dubois went to sleep that happy night dreaming of new discoveries
among the as yet unrestored leaves of his precious _palimpsest_. He
was wakened very early in the morning by a loud knock at his door,
and heard the voice of old Madeleine crying out, “Monsieur Dubois!
Monsieur Dubois! Get up! Pray get up immediately!” He hurried on
his dressing-gown, and found Madeleine in the middle of his study,
her eyes streaming with tears. The room where he had heaped up so
many treasures, where he had spent so many hours of calm happiness,
where he had the last evening enjoyed so much, was empty. The pile
of folios, the rows of richly-bound manuscripts, with the velvet
covers and silver clasps, his precious _palimpsest_, and even the
bundles of musty vellum, had all disappeared. The window was open,
and the little curtain torn; plainly indicating how the robbers
had obtained entrance into his sanctuary. The linnet was singing
a morning song in the lime-trees, and the early sun checkered
the empty floor with bright light and quivering shadows of the
foliage. It seemed as if the sweet sounds and the brilliant rays
were rejoicing over a scene of gladness, instead of such utter
desolation and wretchedness.

No words can describe the pangs which wrung the heart of poor
Dubois, thus suddenly and strangely deprived of the treasure which
he had spent all the energies of his life in discovering. For a
moment, his eyes glared with rage, like those of a tiger deprived
of her young. Then he clasped his trembling hands, and fell
heavily, nearly fainting, into his chair. Alarmed by the sound
of his fall, Marcelline came running in. It was long before she
and old Madeleine could rouse him from his lethargy. At last, his
stupefied senses were awakened and concentrated by his daughter’s
repeated assurances that the lost treasure would be recovered if
an immediate pursuit were instituted. “It is not likely,” said
she, “that we shall recover the richly-illuminated manuscripts, in
their valuable bindings; or the carved ivories; or those codices
written in gold upon grounds of purple; but the sheets of that old
_palimpsest_, with its half-obliterated characters, and the old
volume containing the rest of the work, cannot possibly be of use
to anybody but yourself. Those can surely be recovered.”

A flood of passionate tears came to her father’s relief. His usual
calmness was restored; and after drinking a cup of coffee, urged
upon him by the kind old Madeleine, he hurried forth to give
information to the police, and to make all possible efforts to
recover his treasures.

Some fragments of parchment were found under the lime-trees, but
no further traces were discovered, till late in the forenoon it
was ascertained that one of the richly-bound manuscripts had been
offered to a dealer for sale. In the afternoon, another clew was
obtained from a waste-paper dealer, who described a quantity of
parchment brought to him that morning, which he had not, however,
purchased. From the description, it appeared that the precious
_palimpsest_ was among these bundles. Dubois’s hopes were kindled
by this information. He was recommended to go to the establishments
of various dealers in such articles in remote quarters of the city,
and, accompanied by the police, he made diligent search. Only one
more remained, and that was close to the Barrière du Trone.

Arrived at this establishment, Dubois was surprised to see his
nephew mounted aloft at a desk in the inner warehouse; for he had
never inquired concerning the nature of the factory in which he
was employed. As soon as Hyppolite perceived his uncle, he hurried
forward to welcome him, and told him he had intended to call at
the Rue Cassette that day, for he had just obtained possession of
two illuminated letters that he wished to present to Mademoiselle
Marcelline. He took two slips of vellum from his desk; “See,” said
he, “these are very much in the style of that old Roman History you
were exhibiting to the company last night.”

“Very much in the style!” exclaimed Dubois, his eyes glistening
with delight. “They are identical! Where did you get them?”

“Our foreman sent them down to me,” rejoined Hyppolite. “We
purchase enormous quantities of old parchment, and frequently a few
painted letters are found in the mass. Our manager, in compliance
with my request, cuts them out and reserves them for me.”

“Then the vellum from which they were cut is here?”

“Yes, it is, uncle; but why are you so agitated?”

Dubois briefly related the circumstances of the robbery; and
wiping the cold perspiration from his brow, he added: “But all
is safe now! I would not walk twenty paces to recover all the
silver-clasped volumes, if I can only hold once more the musty
_palimpsest_ which contains that priceless treasure,--The Lost
Books of Livy!”

The flush faded from Hyppolite’s ruddy cheek. “There is not a
moment to be lost!” exclaimed he. “Follow me, dear uncle.”

Away he ran across court-yards, through long warehouses filled
with merchandise, and up flights of stairs, two steps at a bound.
Dubois, highly excited, followed with the activity of youth. They
reached a small room adjoining an enormous mass of lofty chimneys,
from which heavy columns of smoke rolled away before the wind.

“Where is the lot of old vellum that came this morning?” gasped
Hyppolite, all out of breath.

A man who was busy checking off accounts, asked, “Do you mean the
lot from which you cut those two letters?”

“Yes, yes,” replied Hyppolite. “Where is it? Where is it? It is
very important!”

“Let me see,” said the man. “It was lot number fourteen, purchased
at eight o’clock this morning. We happened to be very short of
vellum, and I gave out that new lot directly.” He opened a creaking
door, and called out, “Pierre! Pierre! what was the number of the
lot you put in last?”

“Number fourteen,” replied a deep voice within; and the door closed
again, with dinning rattle of rope and weight.

“It is too late,” said the foreman, turning to Hyppolite. “It went
in at eleven o’clock.”

“Went _in_? Went in _where_?” exclaimed Dubois, turning first to
Hyppolite, and then to the foreman, with a look of haggard anxiety.

“Into the boiler,” replied Hyppolite, taking his uncle’s hand.
“This is a gelatine manufactory. We boil down tons of old parchment
every year.”

       *       *       *       *       *

It was long before Dubois recovered from the shock he had
received; but he did finally recover. He began to accumulate fresh
bibliographical treasures around him, and many pleasant evenings
were spent in those old apartments. But his former enthusiasm never
returned. Any new discovery in the field of his research no longer
excited a rapid flow of ardent words, but was merely indicated by a
faint smile. He was always kindly and genial, and was only roused
to an occasional word or look of bitterness when some circumstance
happened to remind him of the treasure he had lost. “To think that
what I had been hunting for all my life should be found only to be
lost in a pot of gelatine!” he would exclaim, indignantly. Then he
would fall into a silence which no one ventured to disturb. But,
with a slight sigh, and a quiver of his gray locks, he would soon
dismiss the subject from his mind, and change the conversation.

If he ever felt regret at having expended all the energies of his
life among the dim shadows of the past, no one ever heard him
express the feeling. And this was wise; for his habits were too
firmly fixed to be changed. He lived with his dear old volumes as
with friends. The monotony of his life was soothed by a daughter’s
love, and cheered by the kind attentions of his gay young nephew.
His uncommon talents and learning left no traces behind them,
and his name passed away as do the pleasant clouds of twilight.
Hyppolite’s constant love was rewarded by the heart and hand of
Marcelline; and the two
            who most reverenced the old man’s learning,
              and most tenderly cherished the memory
                 of his genial character, lived to
                    talk of them often to each
                        other, and to teach
                           them to their
                           descendants.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]




TO ONE WHO WISHED ME SIXTEEN YEARS OLD.

BY ALICE CARY.


  Suppose your hand with power supplied,
    Say, would you slip it ’neath my hair.
  And turn it to the golden side
    Of sixteen years? Suppose you dare,

  And I stood here with smiling mouth,
    Red cheeks, and hands all softly white,
  Exceeding beautiful with youth,
    And that some tiptoe-treading sprite

  Brought dreams as bright as they could be,
    To keep the shadows from my brow,
  And plucked down hearts to pleasure me,
    As you would roses from a bough.

  What could I do then? Idly wear,
    While all my mates went on before,
  The bashful looks and golden hair
    Of sixteen years! and nothing more?

  Nay, done with youth are my desires,
    Life has no pain I fear to meet;
  Experience, with its dreadful fires,
    Melts knowledge to a welding heat.

  And all its fires of heart and brain,
    Where purpose into power was wrought,
  I’d bear, and gladly bear again,
    Rather than be put back a thought.

  So, sigh no more, my gentle friend,
    That I am at the time of day
  When white hair comes, and heart-beats send
    No blushes through the cheeks astray.

  For could you mould my destiny,
    As clay, within your loving hand,
  I’d leave my youth’s sweet company,
    And suffer back to where I stand.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE SILVERY HEAD.

  Though youth may boast the curls that flow,
  In sunny waves of auburn glow,
       As graceful, on thy hoary head,
       Has time the robe of honor spread,
       And there, O, softly, softly shed
            His wreath of snow.

                        FELICIA HEMANS.




[Illustration]




GROWING OLD.[I]

ADDRESSED TO UNMARRIED WOMEN.

    [I] From Miss Muloch’s “Thoughts about Women.”


It is a trying crisis in life to feel that you have had your fair
half at least of the ordinary term of years allotted to mortals;
that you have no right to expect to be any handsomer, or stronger,
or happier than you are now; that you have climbed to the summit
of life, whence the next step must necessarily be decadence. The
air may be as fresh, the view as grand, still you know that, slower
or faster, you are going down hill. It is not a pleasant descent
at the beginning. It is rather trying when, from long habit, you
unwittingly speak of yourself as a “girl,” to detect a covert
smile on the face of your interlocutor; or, when led by some
chance excitement to deport yourself in an ultra-youthful manner,
some instinct warns you that you are making yourself ridiculous;
or, catching in some strange looking-glass the face you are too
familiar with to notice much, ordinarily, you suddenly become
aware that it is not a young face, and will never be a young face
again. With most people, the passing from maturity to middle age
is so gradual as to be almost imperceptible to the individual
concerned. There is no denying this fact, and it ought to silence
many an ill-natured remark upon those unlucky ones who insist upon
remaining “young ladies of a certain age.” It is very difficult
for a woman to recognize that she is growing old; and to all, this
recognition cannot but be fraught with considerable pain. Even the
most sensible woman cannot fairly put aside her youth, with all it
has enjoyed, or lost, or missed, and regard it as henceforth to be
considered a thing gone by, without a momentary spasm of the heart.

To “grow old gracefully” is a good and beautiful thing; to grow
old worthily is a better. And the first effort to that end is to
become reconciled to the fact of youth’s departure; to have faith
in the wisdom of that which we call change, but which is in truth
progression; to follow openly and fearlessly, in ourselves and
our daily life, the same law which makes spring pass into summer,
summer into autumn, and autumn into winter, preserving an especial
beauty and fitness in each of the four.

If women could only believe it, there is a wonderful beauty even in
growing old. The charm of expression, arising from softened temper
or ripened intellect, often atones amply for the loss of form and
coloring; consequently, to those who could never boast of either of
these latter, years give much more than they take away. A sensitive
person often requires half a lifetime to get thoroughly used to
this corporeal machine; to attain a wholesome indifference both to
its defects and perfections; and to learn at last what nobody would
acquire from any teacher but experience, that it is the _mind_
alone which is of any consequence. With good temper, sincerity,
and a moderate stock of brains, or even with the two former only,
any sort of a body can in time be made a useful, respectable,
and agreeable travelling-dress for the soul. Many a one who was
absolutely plain in youth, thus grows pleasant and well-looking in
declining years. You will seldom find anybody, not ugly in mind,
who is repulsively ugly in person after middle life.

So it is with character. However we may talk about people being
“not a whit altered,” “just the same as ever”; the fact is, not
one of us is, or can be, for long together, exactly the same. The
body we carry with us is not the identical body we were born with,
or the one we supposed ours seven years ago; and our spiritual
self, which inhabits it, also goes through perpetual change and
renewal. In moral and mental, as well as in physical growth, it
is impossible to remain stationary. If we do not advance, we
retrograde. Talk of being “too late to improve,” “too old to
learn”! A human being should be improving with every day of a
lifetime; and will probably have to go on learning throughout all
the ages of immortality.

One of the pleasures of growing old is, to know, to acquire, to
find out, to be able to appreciate the causes of things; this
gradually becomes a necessity and an exquisite delight. We are able
to pass out of our own small daily sphere, and to take interest
in the marvellous government of the universe; to see the grand
workings of cause and effect; the educing of good out of apparent
evil; the clearing away of the knots in tangled destinies, general
or individual; the wonderful agency of time, change, and progress
in ourselves, in those surrounding us, and in the world at large.
In small minds, this feeling expends itself in meddling, gossiping,
scandal-mongering; but such are merely abortive developments of a
right noble quality, which, properly guided, results in benefits
incalculable to the individual and to society. Undoubtedly the
after-half of life is the best working-time. Beautiful is youth’s
enthusiasm, and grand are its achievements; but the most solid
and permanent good is done by the persistent strength and wide
experience of middle age. Contentment rarely comes till then;
not mere resignation, a passive acquiescence in what cannot be
removed, but active contentment. This is a blessing cheaply bought
by a personal share in that daily account of joy and pain, which
the longer one lives the more one sees is pretty equally balanced
in all lives. Young people enjoy “the top of life” ecstatically,
either in prospect or fruition; but they are very seldom contented.
It is not possible. Not till the cloudy maze is half travelled
through, and we begin to see the object and purpose of it, can we
be really content.

The doubtful question, to marry or not to marry, is by this
time generally settled. A woman’s relations with the other sex
imperceptibly change their character, or slowly decline. There
are exceptions; old lovers who have become friends, or friends
whom no new love could make swerve from the fealty of years; still
it usually happens so. The society of honorable, well-informed
gentlemen, who meet a lady on the easy neutral ground of mutual
esteem, is undoubtedly pleasant, but the time has passed when
any one of them is _the_ one necessary to her happiness. If she
wishes to retain influence over mankind, she must do it by means
different from those employed in youth. Even then, be her wit
ever so sparkling, her influence ever so pure and true, she will
often find her listener preferring bright eyes to intellectual
conversation, and the satisfaction of his heart to the improvement
of his mind. And who can blame him? The only way for a woman to
preserve the unfeigned respect of men, is to let them see that
she can do without either their attention or their admiration. The
waning coquette, the ancient beauty, as well as the ordinary woman,
who has had her fair share of both love and liking, must show by
her demeanor that she has learned this.

It is reckoned among the compensations of time that we suffer
less as we grow older; that pain, like joy, becomes dulled by
repetition, or by the callousness that comes with years. In one
sense this is true. If there is no joy like the joy of youth, the
rapture of a first love, the thrill of a first ambition, God’s
great mercy has also granted that there is no anguish like youth’s
pain; so total, so hopeless, blotting out earth and heaven, falling
down upon the whole being like a stone. This never comes in after
life; because the sufferer, if he or she have lived to any purpose
at all, has learned that God never meant any human being to be
crushed under any calamity, like a blind worm under a stone.

For lesser evils, the fact that our interests gradually take
a wider range, allows more scope for the healing power of
compensation. Also our loves, hates, sympathies, and prejudices,
having assumed a more rational and softened shape, do not present
so many angles for the rough attrition of the world. Likewise,
with the eye of faith we have come to view life in its entireness,
instead of puzzling over its disjointed parts, which were never
meant to be made wholly clear to mortal eye. And that calm
twilight, which, by nature’s kindly law, so soon begins to creep
over the past, throws over all things a softened coloring, which
transcends and forbids regret.

Another reason why woman has greater capacity for usefulness in
middle life than in any previous portion of her existence, is
her greater independence. She will have learned to understand
herself, mentally and bodily; to be mistress over herself. Nor is
this a small advantage; for it often takes years to comprehend,
and to act upon when comprehended, the physical peculiarities of
one’s own constitution. Much valetudinarianism among women arises
from ignorance or neglect of the commonest sanitary laws; and
from indifference to that grand preservative of a healthy body,
_a well-controlled and healthy mind_. Both of these are more
attainable in middle age than in youth; and therefore the sort of
happiness they bring, a solid, useful, available happiness, is more
in her power then than at any earlier period. And why? Because she
has ceased to think principally of herself and her own pleasures;
because happiness has itself become to her an accidental thing,
which the good God may give or withhold, as He sees most fit for
her, and most adapted to the work for which he means to use her
in her generation. This conviction of being at once an active and
a passive agent is surely consecration enough to form the peace,
nay, the happiness, of any good woman’s life; enough, be it ever
so solitary, to sustain it until the end. In what manner such a
conviction should be carried out, no one individual can venture to
advise. In this age, woman’s work is almost unlimited, when the
woman herself so chooses. She alone can be a law unto herself;
deciding and acting according to the circumstances in which her
lot is placed. And have we not many who do so act? There are women
of property, whose names are a proverb for generous and wide
charities; whose riches, carefully guided, flow into innumerable
channels, freshening the whole land. There are women of rank
and influence, who use both, or lay aside both, in the simplest
humility, for labors of love, which level all classes, or rather
raise them all, to one common sphere of womanhood.

Many others, of whom the world knows nothing, have taken the
wisest course that any unmarried woman can take; they have made
themselves a home and a position; some, as the Ladies Bountiful of
a country neighborhood; some, as elder sisters, on whom has fallen
the bringing up of whole families, and to whom has been tacitly
accorded the headship of the same, by the love and respect of
more than one generation thereof. There are some who, as writers,
painters, and professional women generally, make the most of
whatever special gift is allotted to them; believing that, whether
it be great or small, it is not theirs, either to lose or to waste,
but that they must one day render up to the Master his own, with
usury.

I will not deny that the approach of old age has its sad
aspect to a woman who has never married; and who, when her own
generation dies out, no longer retains, or can expect to retain,
any flesh-and-blood claim upon a single human being. When all
the downward ties, which give to the decline of life a rightful
comfort, and the interest in the new generation which brightens
it with a perpetual hope, are to her either unknown, or indulged
in chiefly on one side. Of course there are exceptions, where an
aunt has been almost like a mother, and where a loving and lovable
great-aunt is as important a personage as any grandmother. But,
generally speaking, a single woman must make up her mind that the
close of her days will be more or less solitary.

Yet there is a solitude which old age feels to be as natural and
satisfying as that rest which seems such an irksomeness to youth,
but which gradually grows into the best blessing of our lives; and
there is another solitude, so full of peace and hope, that it is
like Jacob’s sleep in the wilderness, at the foot of the ladder of
angels.

The extreme loneliness, which afar off appears sad, may prove to be
but as the quiet, dreamy hour, “between the lights,” when the day’s
work is done, and we lean back, closing our eyes, to think it all
over before we finally go to rest, or to look forward, with faith
and hope, unto the coming Morning.

A life in which the best has been made of all the materials granted
to it, and through which the hand of the Great Designer can be
plainly traced, whether its web be dark or bright, whether its
pattern be clear or clouded, is not a life to be pitied;
            for it is a completed life. It has fulfilled
                its appointed course, and returns to
                  the Giver of all breath, pure as
                      he gave it. Nor will he
                         forget it when he
                          counteth up his
                              jewels.

[Illustration]

    “Time wears slippers of list, and his tread is noiseless. The
    days come softly dawning, one after another; they creep in at
    the windows; their fresh morning air is grateful to the lips as
    they pant for it; their music is sweet to the ears that listen
    to it; until, before we know it, a whole life of days has
    possession of the citadel, and time has taken us for its own.”




[Illustration]




EQUINOCTIAL.

BY MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY.


  The Sun of Life has crossed the line;
    The summer-shine of lengthened light
  Faded and failed,--till, where I stand,
    ’Tis equal Day and equal Night.

  One after one, as dwindling hours,
    Youth’s glowing hopes have dropped away,
  And soon may barely leave the gleam
    That coldly scores a winter’s day.

  I am not young, I am not old;
    The flush of morn, the sunset calm,
  Paling, and deepening, each to each,
    Meet midway with a solemn charm.

  One side I see the summer fields,
    Not yet disrobed of all their green;
  While westerly, along the hills,
    Flame the first tints of frosty sheen.

  Ah, middle-point, where cloud and storm
    Make battle-ground of this my life!
  Where, even-matched, the Night and Day
    Wage round me their September strife!

  I bow me to the threatening gale:
    I know when that is overpast,
  Among the peaceful harvest-days,
    An Indian-summer comes at last.




EPITAPH ON THE UNMATED.

  No chosen spot of ground she called her own.
  In pilgrim guise o’er earth she wandered on;
  Yet always in her path some flowers were strown.
  No dear ones were her own peculiar care,
  So was her bounty free as heaven’s air;
  For every claim she had enough to spare.
  And, loving more her heart to _give_ than lend,
  Though oft deceived in many a trusted friend,
  She hoped, believed, and trusted to the end.
  She had her joys;--’twas joy to her to love,
  To labor in the world with God above,
  And tender hearts that ever near did move.
  She had her griefs;--but they left peace behind,
  And healing came on every stormy wind,
  And still with silver every cloud was lined.
  And every loss sublimed some low desire,
  And every sorrow taught her to aspire,
  Till waiting angels bade her “Go up higher.”

                        E. S.




[Illustration]




A BEAUTIFUL THOUGHT.[J]

    [J] From the Rev. Dr. Francis’s Memoir of the Hon. John Davis.


Blessing and blessed, this excellent man passed on to old age; and
how beautiful that old age was, none, who had the privilege of
knowing it, can ever forget. It was the old age of the Christian
scholar and the beloved man. His evening of life could not but be
bright and serene, full of hope, and free from sadness. He had a
kindly freshness of spirit, which made the society of the young
pleasant to him; and they, on their part, were always happy to be
with him, enjoying the good-natured wisdom and the modest richness
of his conversation. His faculties remained clear, active, and
healthy to the last. Advancing years never for a moment closed
the capacity, or abated the willingness, to receive new ideas.
Though a lover of the past and the established, his opinions never
hardened into prejudices. His intellectual vigor was not seen to
moulder under the quiet which an old man claims as his right. Of
him might be said what Solon said of himself in advanced years,
that “he learned something every day he lived”; and to no one could
be better applied the remark of Cicero concerning the venerable
Appius: “He kept his mind bent like a bow, nor was it ever relaxed
by old age.”

But it was peculiarly his fine moral qualities--his benevolence,
his artlessness, his genial kindness--which shed a mellow and
beautiful light on his old age. No thought of self ever mingled
its alloy with the virtues that adorned Judge Davis’s character.
His reliance on the truths and promises of Christian faith
seemed more confident and vital as he drew nearer to the great
realities of the future. For him, life had always a holy meaning.
A Grecian philosopher, at the age of eighty-five, is said to
have expressed painful discontent at the shortness of life, and
complained of nature’s hard allotment, which snatches man away just
as he is about to reach some perfection of science. Not so our
Christian sage; he found occasion, not for complaint, but rather
for thankfulness, because, as the end approached, he saw more
distinctly revealed the better light beyond.

He once expressed, in a manner touchingly beautiful, his own
estimation of old age. On the occasion of a dinner-party, at which
Judge Story and others eminent in the legal profession were
present, the conversation turned upon the comparative advantages of
the different periods of life. Some preferred, for enjoyment, youth
and manhood; others ascribed more solid satisfactions to old age.
When the opinion of Judge Davis was asked, he said, with his usual
calm simplicity of manner: “In the warm season of the year it is
my delight to be in the country; and every pleasant evening while
I am there, I love to sit at the window and look at some beautiful
trees which grow near my house. The murmuring of the wind through
the branches, the gentle play of the leaves, and the flickering of
light upon them when the moon is up, fill me with an indescribable
pleasure. As the autumn comes on, I feel very sad to see these
leaves falling one
             by one; but when they are all gone, I find
               that they were only a screen before my
                  eyes; for I experience a new and
                   higher satisfaction as I gaze
                     through the naked branches
                       at the glorious stars
                         of heaven beyond.”

[Illustration]




[Illustration]




AT ANCHOR.[K]

    [K] Author unknown.


  Ah, many a year ago, dear wife,
    We floated down this river,
  Where the hoar willows on its brink
    Alternate wave and shiver;
  With careless glance we viewed askance
    The kingfisher at quest,
  And scarce would heed the reed-wren near,
    Who sang beside her nest;
  Nor dreamed that e’er our boat would be
    Thus anchored and at rest,
             Dear love,
    Thus anchored, and at rest!

  O, many a time the wren has built
    Where those green shadows quiver,
  And many a time the hawthorn shed
    Its blossoms on the river,
  Since that sweet noon of sultry June,
    When I my love confessed,
  While with the tide our boat did glide
    Adown the stream’s smooth breast,
  Whereon our little shallop lies
    Now anchored, and at rest,
            Dear love,
    Now anchored, and at rest!

  The waters still to ocean run,
    Their tribute to deliver,
  And still the hawthorns bud and bloom
    Above the dusky river.
  Still sings the wren,--the water-hen
    Still skims the ripple’s crest;
  The sun--as bright as on that night--
    Sinks slowly down the west;
  But now our tiny craft is moored,
    Safe anchored and at rest,
            Dear love,
    Safe anchored, and at rest!

  For this sweet calm of after-days
    We thank the bounteous Giver,
  Who bids our life flow smoothly on
    As this delicious river.
  A world--our own--has round us grown,
    Wherein we twain are blest;
  Our child’s first words than songs of birds
    More music have expressed;
  And all our centred happiness
    Is anchored, and at rest,
            Dear love,
    Is anchored, and at rest!




[Illustration]




NOVEMBER.

BY REV. HENRY WARD BEECHER.


We often hear people say, “O, the dreary days of November!”
The days of November are never dreary, though _men_ sometimes
are. There are things in November that make us sad. There are
suggestions in it that lead us to serious thoughts. At that season
of the year, we are apt to feel that life is passing away. After
the days in summer begin to grow short, I cannot help sighing
often; and, as they still grow shorter and shorter, I look upon
things, not with pain, but with a melancholy eye. And when autumn
comes, and the leaves of the trees drop down through the air and
find their resting-places, I cannot help thinking, that life is
short, that our work is almost ended. It makes me sad; but there
is a sadness that is wholesome, and even pleasurable. There are
sorrows that are not painful, but are of the nature of some acids,
and give piquancy and flavor to life. Such is the sorrow which
November brings. That month, which sees the year disrobed, is not
a dreary month. I like to see the trees go to bed, as much as I
like to see little children go to their sleep; and I think there
is nothing prettier in this world than to see a mother disrobe her
child and prepare its couch, and sing and talk to it, and finally
lay it to rest. I like to see the birds get ready for their repose
at night. Did you ever sit at twilight and hear the birds talk of
their domestic matters,--apparently going over with each other
the troubles and joys of the day? There is an immense deal to be
learned from birds, if a person has an ear to hear. Even so I like
to see the year prepare for its sleep. I like to see the trees with
their clothes taken off. I like to see the lines of a tree; to see
its anatomy. I like to see the preparation God makes for winter.
How everything is snugged and packed! How all nature gets ready for
the cold season! How the leaves heap themselves upon the roots to
protect them from the frosts! How all things tender are taken out
of the way, and only things tough are left to stand the buffetings
of winter! And how do hardy vines and roots bravely sport their
bannered leaves, which the frost cannot kill, holding them up clear
into the coldest days! November is a dreary month to some, but to
me it is only sad; and it is a sweet sadness that it brings to my
mind.




[Illustration]




MEDITATIONS ON A BIRTHDAY EVE.

BY REV. JOHN PIERPONT.


  Day, with its labors, has withdrawn.
    The stars look down from heaven,
  And whisper, “Of thy life are gone
    Full seventy years and seven!”

  While those bright worlds, by angels trod,
    Thus whispering round me roll,
  Let me commune with thee, my God!
    Commune with thee, my soul!

  Thou, Father, canst not change thy place,
    Nor change thy time to be.
  What are the boundless fields of space,
    Or what are years to Thee?

  But unto me, revolving years
    Bring change, bring feebler breath;
  Bring age,--and, though they bring no fears,
    Bring slower steps, pain, death.

  This earthly house thy wisdom plann’d,
    And leased me for a term,
  The house I live in, _seems_ to stand
    On its foundation firm.

  I hardly see that it is old;
    But younger eyes find proof
  Of its long standing, who behold
    The gray moss on its roof.

  Spirit! thou knowest this house, erelong,
    To kindred dust must fall.
  Hast thou, while in it, grown more strong,
    More ready for the call

  To meet thy Judge, amid “the cloud
    Of witnesses,” who’ve run
  Their heavenward race, and joined the crowd,
    Who wreaths and crowns have won?

  Hast thou, in search of Truth, been true?
    True to thyself and her?
  And been, with many or with few,
    Her _honest_ worshipper?

  E’en truths, wherein the Past hath stood,
    Wouldst thou inherit blind?
  They’re good; but there’s a _better_ good,--
    The power _more_ truths to find.

  And hast thou occupied that power,
    And made one talent five?
  If so, then peaceful be this hour!
    Thou’st saved thy soul alive.

  Hast thou e’er given the world a page,
    A line that thou wouldst blot,
  As adverse to an upward age?
    God knoweth thou hast not!

  Giver of life and all my powers,
    To thee my soul I lift!
  And in these lone and thoughtful hours,
    I thank thee for the gift.

  Day, with its toil and care withdrawn,
    Night’s shadows o’er me thrown,
  Another of my years is gone,
    And here I sit alone.

  No, not alone! for with me sit
    My judges,--God and I;
  And the large record we have writ,
    Is lying open by.

  And as I hope, erelong, to swell
    The song of seraphim,
  And as that song the truth will tell,
    My judgment is with Him.

  Spirit! thy race is nearly run.
    Say, hast thou run it well?
  Thy work on earth is almost done;
    _How_ done, no _man_ can tell.

  Spirit, toil on! thy house, that stands
    Seventy years old and seven,
  Will fall; but one, “not made with hands”
    Awaiteth thee in heaven.




[Illustration]




THE GRANDMOTHER OF SLAVES.

BY HER GRANDDAUGHTER.


I had a great treasure in my maternal grandmother, who was a
remarkable woman in many respects. She was the daughter of a
planter in South Carolina, who, at his death, left her and her
mother free, with money to go to St. Augustine, where they had
relatives. It was during the Revolutionary War, and they were
captured on their passage, carried back, and sold to different
purchasers. Such was the story my grandmother used to tell me. She
was sold to the keeper of a large hotel, and I have often heard
her tell how hard she fared during childhood. But as she grew
older, she evinced so much intelligence, and was so faithful, that
her master and mistress could not help seeing it was for their
interest to take care of such a valuable piece of property. She
became an indispensable person in the household, officiating in all
capacities, from cook and wet-nurse to seamstress She was much
praised for her cooking; and her nice crackers became so famous
in the neighborhood that many people were desirous of obtaining
them. In consequence of numerous requests of this kind, she asked
permission of her mistress to bake crackers at night, after all the
household work was done; and she obtained leave to do it, provided
she would clothe herself and the children from the profits. Upon
these terms, after working hard all day for her mistress, she began
her midnight bakings, assisted by her two oldest children. The
business proved profitable; and each year she laid by a little,
to create a fund for the purchase of her children. Her master
died, and his property was divided among the heirs. My grandmother
remained in the service of his widow, as a slave. Her children
were divided among her master’s children; but, as she had five,
Benjamin, the youngest, was sold, in order that the heirs might
have an equal portion of dollars and cents. There was so little
difference in our ages, that he always seemed to me more like a
brother than an uncle. He was a bright, handsome lad, nearly white;
for he inherited the complexion my grandmother had derived from
Anglo-Saxon ancestors. His sale was a terrible blow to his mother;
but she was naturally hopeful, and she went to work with redoubled
energy, trusting in time to be able to purchase her children. One
day, her mistress begged the loan of three hundred dollars from
the little fund she had laid up from the proceeds of her baking.
She promised to pay her soon; but as no promise, or writing, given
to a slave is legally binding, she was obliged to trust solely to
her honor.

In my master’s house very little attention was paid to the slaves’
meals. If they could catch a bit of food while it was going,
well and good. But I gave myself no trouble on that score; for
on my various errands I passed my grandmother’s house, and she
always had something to spare for me. I was frequently threatened
with punishment if I stopped there; and my grandmother, to avoid
detaining me, often stood at the gate with something for my
breakfast or dinner. I was indebted to her for all my comforts,
spiritual or temporal. It was _her_ labor that supplied my scanty
wardrobe. I have a vivid recollection of the linsey-woolsey dress
given me every winter by Mrs. Flint. How I hated it! It was one
of the badges of slavery. While my grandmother was thus helping
to support me from her hard earnings, the three hundred dollars
she lent her mistress was never repaid. When her mistress died,
my master, who was her son-in-law, was appointed executor. When
grandmother applied to him for payment, he said the estate was
insolvent, and the law prohibited payment. It did not, however,
prohibit him from retaining the silver candelabra, which had been
purchased with that money. I presume they will be handed down in
the family, from generation to generation.

My grandmother’s mistress had always promised that, at her death,
she should be free; and it was said that in her will she made good
the promise. But when the estate was settled, Dr. Flint told the
faithful old servant that, under existing circumstances, it was
necessary she should be sold.

On the appointed day, the customary advertisement was posted up,
proclaiming that there would be “a public sale of negroes, horses,
&c.” Dr. Flint called to tell my grandmother that he was unwilling
to wound her feelings by putting her up at auction, and that he
would prefer to dispose of her at private sale. She saw through
his hypocrisy, and understood very well that he was ashamed of the
job. She was a very spirited woman, and if he was base enough to
sell her, after her mistress had made her free by her will, she was
determined the public should know it. She had, for a long time,
supplied many families with crackers and preserves; consequently
“Aunt Marthy,” as she was called, was generally known; and all who
knew her respected her intelligence and good character. It was
also well known that her mistress had intended to leave her free,
as a reward for her long and faithful services. When the day of
sale came, she took her place among the chattels, and at the first
call she sprang upon the auction-block. She was then fifty years
old. Many voices called out, “Shame! Shame! Who’s going to sell
_you_, Aunt Marthy? Don’t stand there! That’s no place for _you_!”
She made no answer, but quietly awaited her fate. No one bid for
her. At last, a feeble voice said, “Fifty dollars.” It came from
a maiden lady, seventy years old, the sister of my grandmother’s
deceased mistress. She had lived forty years under the same roof
with my grandmother; she knew how faithfully she had served her
owners, and how cruelly she had been defrauded of her rights, and
she resolved to protect her. The auctioneer waited for a higher
bid; but her wishes were respected; no one bid above her. The old
lady could neither read nor write; and when the bill of sale was
made out, she signed it with a cross. But of what consequence was
that, when she had a big heart overflowing with human kindness? She
gave the faithful old servant her freedom.

My grandmother had always been a mother to her orphan
grandchildren, as far as that was possible in a condition of
slavery. Her perseverance and unwearied industry continued unabated
after her time was her own, and she soon became mistress of a
snug little home, and surrounded herself with the necessaries of
life. She would have been happy, if her family could have shared
them with her. There remained to her but three children and two
grandchildren; and they were all slaves. Most earnestly did she
strive to make us feel that it was the will of God; that He had
seen fit to place us under such circumstances; and, though it
seemed hard, we ought to pray for contentment. It was a beautiful
faith, coming from a mother who could not call her children her
own. But I, and Benjamin, her youngest boy, condemned it. It
appeared to us that it was much more according to the will of God
that we should be free, and able to make a home for ourselves, as
she had done. There we always found balsam for our troubles. She
was so loving, so sympathizing! She always met us with a smile, and
listened with patience to all our sorrows. She spoke so hopefully,
that unconsciously the clouds gave place to sunshine. There was a
grand big oven there, too, that baked bread and nice things for
the town; and we knew there was always a choice bit in store for
us. But even the charms of that old oven failed to reconcile us to
our hard lot. Benjamin was now a tall, handsome lad, strongly and
gracefully made, and with a spirit too bold and daring for a slave.

One day, his master attempted to flog him for not obeying his
summons quickly enough. Benjamin resisted, and in the struggle
threw his master down. To raise his hand against a white man was
a great crime according to the laws of the State, and to avoid a
cruel public whipping, Benjamin hid himself and made his escape. My
grandmother was absent visiting an old friend in the country, when
this happened. When she returned, and found her youngest child had
fled, great was her sorrow. But, with characteristic piety, she
said, “God’s will be done.” Every morning she inquired whether any
news had been heard from her boy. Alas, news did come; sad news.
The master received a letter, and was rejoicing over the capture of
his human chattel.

That day seems to me but as yesterday, so well do I remember it.
I saw him led through the streets in chains to jail. His face was
ghastly pale, but full of determination. He had sent some one to
his mother’s house, to ask her not to come to meet him. He said the
sight of her distress would take from him all self-control. Her
heart yearned to see him, and she went; but she screened herself in
the crowd, that it might be as her child had said.

We were not allowed to visit him. But we had known the jailer for
years, and he was a kind-hearted man. At midnight he opened the
door for my grandmother and myself to enter, in disguise. When we
entered the cell, not a sound broke the stillness. “Benjamin,”
whispered my grandmother. No answer. “Benjamin!” said she, again,
in a faltering tone. There was a jingling of chains. The moon
had just risen, and cast an uncertain light through the bars. We
knelt down and took Benjamin’s cold hands in ours. Sobs alone were
heard, while she wept upon his neck. At last Benjamin’s lips were
unsealed. Mother and son talked together. He asked her pardon
for the suffering he had caused her. She told him she had nothing
to forgive; that she could not blame him for wanting to be free.
He told her that he broke away from his captors, and was about to
throw himself into the river, but thoughts of her came over him and
arrested the movement. She asked him if he did not also think of
God. He replied, “No, mother, I did not. When a man is hunted like
a wild beast, he forgets that there _is_ a God.”

The pious mother shuddered, as she said, “Don’t talk so, Benjamin.
Try to be humble, and put your trust in God.”

“I wish I had some of your goodness,” he replied. “You bear
everything patiently, just as though you thought it was all right.
I wish I could.”

She told him it had not always been so with her; that once she was
like him; but when sore troubles came upon her, and she had no arm
to lean upon, she learned to call on God, and he lightened her
burdens. She besought him to do so likewise.

The jailer came to tell us we had overstayed our time, and we were
obliged to hurry away. Grandmother went to the master and tried
to intercede for her son. But he was inexorable. He said Benjamin
should be made an example of. That he should be kept in jail till
he was sold. For three months he remained within the walls of
the prison, during which time grandmother secretly conveyed him
changes of clothes, and as often as possible carried him something
warm for supper, accompanied with some little luxury for her
friend the jailer. He was finally sold to a slave-trader from New
Orleans. When they fastened irons upon his wrists to drive him
off with the coffle, it was heart-rending to hear the groans of
that poor mother, as she clung to the Benjamin of her family,--her
youngest, her pet. He was pale and thin now from hardships and long
confinement, but still his good looks were so observable, that the
slave-trader remarked he would give any price for the handsome lad,
if he were a girl. We, who knew so well what slavery was, were
thankful that he was not.

Grandmother stifled her grief, and with strong arms and unwavering
faith set to work to purchase freedom for Benjamin. She knew the
slave-trader would charge three times as much as he gave for him;
but she was not discouraged. She employed a lawyer to write to New
Orleans, and try to negotiate the business for her. But word came
that Benjamin was missing; he had run away again.

Philip, my grandmother’s only remaining son, inherited his mother’s
intelligence. His mistress sometimes trusted him to go with a
cargo to New York. One of these occasions occurred not long
after Benjamin’s second escape. Through God’s good providence the
brothers met in the streets of New York. It was a happy meeting,
though Benjamin was very pale and thin; for, on his way from
bondage, he had been taken violently ill, and brought nigh unto
death. Eagerly he embraced his brother, exclaiming, “O Phil!
here I am at last! I came nigh dying when I was almost in sight
of freedom; and O how I prayed that I might live just to get one
breath of free air! And here I am. In the old jail I used to wish
I was dead. But life is worth something now, and it would be hard
to die.” He begged his brother not to go back to the South, but
to stay and work with him till they earned enough to buy their
relatives.

Philip replied: “It would kill mother if I deserted her. She has
pledged her house, and is working harder than ever to buy you. Will
you be bought?”

“Never!” replied Benjamin, in his resolute tone. “When I have got
so far out of their clutches, do you suppose, Phil, that I would
ever let them be paid one red cent? Do you think I would consent
to have mother turned out of her hard-earned home in her old age?
And she never to see me after she had bought me? For you know,
Phil, she would never leave the South while any of her children or
grandchildren remained in slavery. What a good mother! Tell her to
buy _you_, Phil. You have always been a comfort to her; and I have
always been making her trouble.”

Philip furnished his brother with some clothes, and gave him what
money he had. Benjamin pressed his hand, and said, with moistened
eyes, “I part from all my kindred.” And so it proved. We never
heard from him afterwards.

When Uncle Philip came home, the first words he said, on entering
the house, were: “O, mother, Ben is free! I have seen him in New
York.” For a moment, she seemed bewildered. He laid his hand gently
on her shoulder, and repeated what he had said. She raised her
hands devoutly, and exclaimed, “God be praised! Let us thank Him.”
She dropped on her knees, and poured forth her heart in prayer.
When she grew calmer, she begged Philip to sit down and repeat
every word her son had said. He told her all, except that Benjamin
had nearly died on the way, and was looking very pale and thin.

Still the brave old woman toiled on to accomplish the rescue of her
remaining children. After a while, she succeeded in buying Philip,
for whom she paid eight hundred dollars, and came home with the
precious document that secured his freedom. The happy mother and
son sat by her hearth-stone that night, telling how proud they were
of each other, and how they would prove to the world that they
could take care of themselves, as they had long taken care of
others. We all concluded by saying, “He that is _willing_ to be a
slave, let him be a slave.”

My grandmother had still one daughter remaining in slavery. She
belonged to the same master that I did; and a hard time she had
of it. She was a good soul, this old Aunt Nancy. She did all she
could to supply the place of my lost mother to us orphans. She was
the _factotum_ in our master’s household. She was housekeeper,
waiting-maid, and everything else; nothing went on well without
her, by day or by night. She wore herself out in their service.
Grandmother toiled on, hoping to purchase release for her. But one
evening word was brought that she had been suddenly attacked with
paralysis, and grandmother hastened to her bedside. Mother and
daughter had always been devotedly attached to each other; and now
they looked lovingly and earnestly into each other’s eyes, longing
to speak of secrets that weighed on the hearts of both. She lived
but two days, and on the last day she was speechless. It was sad
to witness the grief of her bereaved mother. She had always been
strong to bear, and religious faith still supported her; but her
dark life had become still darker, and age and trouble were leaving
deep traces on her withered face. The poor old back was fitted to
its burden. It bent under it, but did not break.

Uncle Philip asked permission to bury his sister at his own
expense; and slaveholders are always ready to grant _such_ favors
to slaves and their relatives. The arrangements were very plain,
but perfectly respectable. It was talked of by the slaves as a
mighty grand funeral. If Northern travellers had been passing
through the place, perhaps they would have described it as a
beautiful tribute to the humble dead, a touching proof of the
attachment between slaveholders and their slaves; and very likely
the mistress would have confirmed this impression, with her
handkerchief at her eyes. _We_ could have told them how the poor
old mother had toiled, year after year, to buy her son Philip’s
right to his own earnings; and how that same Philip had paid the
expenses of the funeral, which they regarded as doing so much
credit to the master.

There were some redeeming features in our hard destiny. Very
pleasant are my recollections of the good old lady who paid fifty
dollars for the purpose of making my grandmother free, when she
stood on the auction-block. She loved this old lady, whom we all
called Miss Fanny. She often took tea at grandmother’s house. On
such occasions, the table was spread with a snow-white cloth, and
the china cups and silver spoons were taken from the old-fashioned
buffet. There were hot muffins, tea-rusks, and delicious
sweetmeats. My grandmother always had a supply of such articles,
because she furnished the ladies of the town with such things for
their parties. She kept two cows for that purpose, and the fresh
cream was Miss Fanny’s delight. She invariably repeated that it was
the very best in town. The old ladies had cosey times together.
They would work and chat, and sometimes, while talking over old
times, their spectacles would get dim with tears, and would have to
be taken off and wiped. When Miss Fanny bade us “Good by,” her bag
was always filled with grandmother’s best cakes, and she was urged
to come again soon.

[Here follows a long account of persecutions endured by the
granddaughter, who tells this story. She finally made her escape,
after encountering great dangers and hardships. The faithful old
grandmother concealed her for a long time at great risk to them
both, during which time she tried in vain to buy free papers for
her. At last there came a chance to escape in a vessel Northward
bound. She goes on to say:--]

All arrangements were made for me to go on board at dusk.
Grandmother came to me with a small bag of money, which she wanted
me to take. I begged her to keep at least part of it; but she
insisted, while her tears fell fast, that I should take the whole.
“You may be sick among strangers,” said she; “and they would send
you to the poor-house to die.” Ah, that good grandmother! Though I
had the blessed prospect of freedom before me, I felt dreadfully
sad at leaving forever that old homestead, that had received and
sheltered me in so many sorrows. Grandmother took me by the hand,
and said, “My child, let us pray.” We knelt down together, with my
arm clasped round the faithful, loving old friend I was about to
leave forever. On no other occasion has it been my lot to listen
to so fervent a supplication for mercy and protection. It thrilled
through my heart and inspired me with trust in God. I staggered
into the street, faint in body, though strong of purpose. I did
not look back upon the dear old place, though I felt that I should
never see it again.

[The granddaughter found friends at the North, and, being
uncommonly quick in her perceptions, she soon did much to
supply the deficiencies of early education. While leading a
worthy, industrious life in New York, she twice very narrowly
escaped becoming a victim to the infamous Fugitive Slave Law. A
noble-hearted lady purchased her freedom, and thereby rescued her
from further danger. She thus closes the story of her venerable
ancestor:--]

My grandmother lived to rejoice in the knowledge of my freedom;
but not long afterward a letter came to me with a black seal. It
was from a friend at the South, who informed me that she had gone
“where the wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary are at
rest.” Among the gloomy recollections of my life in bondage come
tender memories of that good grandmother, like a few fleecy clouds
floating over a dark and troubled sea.

                                                               H. J.

NOTE.--The above account is no fiction. The author, who was
thirty years in slavery, wrote it in an interesting book entitled
“Linda.” She is an esteemed friend of mine; and I introduce this
portion of her story here to illustrate the power of character
over circumstances. She has intense sympathy for those who are
still suffering in the bondage from which she escaped. She is
now devoting all her energies to the poor refugees in our camps,
comforting the afflicted, nursing the sick, and teaching the
children. On the 1st of January, 1863, she wrote me a letter, which
began as follows: “I have lived to hear the Proclamation of Freedom
for my suffering people. All my wrongs are forgiven. I am more than
repaid for all I have endured. Glory to God in the highest!”

                                                            L. M. C.

       *       *       *       *       *

    We hear men often enough speak of seeing God in the stars and
    the flowers, but they will never be truly religious, till they
    learn to behold Him in _each other_ also, where He is most
    easily, yet most rarely discovered.

                                                        J. R. LOWELL




    [Illustration]




    AULD LANG SYNE.

    BY ROBERT BURNS.


  Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
    And never brought to min’?
  Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
    And days o’ lang syne?

            CHORUS.

  For auld lang syne, my dear,
    For auld lang syne;
  We’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet,
    For auld lang syne.

  We twa hae ran about the braes,
    And pu’d the gowans[L] fine;
  But we’ve wandered mony a weary foot,
    Sin’ auld lang syne.

  We twa hae paidl’t i’ the burn,[M]
    Frae morning sun till dine;
  But seas between us braid hae roared
    Sin’ auld lang syne.

            CHORUS.

  For auld lang syne, my dear,
    For auld lang syne;
  We’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet,
    For auld lang syne.

    [L] Wild daisies.

    [M] Brook.




OLD FOLKS AT HOME.


  They love the places where they wandered
      When they were young;
  They love the books they’ve often pondered,
      They love the tunes they’ve sung.

  The easy-chair, so soft and dozy,
      Is their delight;
  The ample slippers, warm and cozy,
      And the dear old bed at night.

             CHORUS.

  Near their hearth-stones, warm and cheery,
      Where, by night or day,
  They’re free to rest when they are weary,
      There the old folks love to stay.

                        L. M. C.




[Illustration]




OLD UNCLE TOMMY

FROM THE CHRISTIAN REGISTER.

      “Let him, where and when he will, sit down
  Beneath the trees, or by the grassy bank
  Of highway-side, and with the little birds
  Share his chance-gathered meal; and finally,
  As in the eye of Nature he has lived,
  So in the eye of Nature let him die.”

                        WORDSWORTH.


The morning after the storm was calm and beautiful; just one
of those days so dear to every lover of Nature; for every true
worshipper of our all-bountiful Mother is a poet at heart, though
his lips may often fail to utter the rich experience of his soul.
The air was full of fragrance and the songs of birds. Here and
there a gentle breeze would shower down the drops of moisture from
the trees, forming a mimic rain; every bush and shrub, and each
separate blade of grass, glittered in the morning sunlight, as if
hung with brightest jewels. The stillness was in harmony with the
day of rest, and only the most peaceful thoughts were suggested by
this glorious calm, returning after the tempest.

The late proprietor of the Leigh Manor had presented a small,
though very perfect, chime of bells to Leighton Church; they had
never been successfully played until now, when the ringers, having
become more skilful, they for the first time pealed a regular
chant; and right merrily did the sound go forth over the quiet
plain.

  To God the mighty Lord,
    Your joyful songs repeat;
  To Him your praise accord,
    As good as He is great.

“Ah,” said an old man, leaning on his staff, and gazing at the
bells, “how I wish the Masther could a’ heard ye! Well, p’r’aps
he _does_ hear the bonny bells a-praising God. God bless thee,
dear Masther, and have thee forever in his holy keeping!” and
raising his hat reverently from his head, the old man stood with
the white hair streaming back upon his shoulders, leaving unshaded
his upturned countenance, where were visible the traces of many a
conflict and of many a hard-earned victory; the _traces_ only, for
time and living faith had smoothed the deeper marks. As in Nature
this morning you saw there _had been_ storm and fierce strife; but
now all was at peace. The clear blue eye of the aged man shone with
a brighter light than youth alone can give. It was the undying
light of immortality; for, old and poor and ignorant as he was,
to worldly eyes, his soul had attained a noble stature; and as he
stood there with uncovered head, in the June sunshine, there was a
majesty about him which no mere earthly rank can impart. You saw
before you a child of the Great Father; you _felt_ that he communed
in spirit with his God, as with a dear and loving parent; that the
Most High was very nigh unto him. And yet this man dwelt amongst
the paupers of a country almshouse, and men called him insane! But
he was “harmless,” they said; so he was allowed to come and go
about the neighborhood, as he pleased, and no one feared him.

The little children, as they passed to Sunday School this morning,
stepped more lightly, lest they should disturb him; for he was a
favorite with the “little people,” as he called them.

When beyond his hearing, they whispered to one another, “I don’t
believe Uncle Tommy is crazy, do you? I never want to plague him;
he’s so kind.”

“He isn’t a mite like laughing Davy,” said another; “for Davy is
real mischievous sometimes, and Uncle Tommy isn’t a bit; what do
you s’pose folks call him crazy for?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” whispered a third, “for he knows _ever so
much_. I guess it’s ’cause he _seems_ as he does now; and nobody
else ever does, do they? That’s what folks laugh at.”

“Well, it’s too bad,” exclaimed a rosy little girl of nine or ten
summers. “I mean to go speak to him. That’ll wake him up. He’s
always so good to us, I _hate_ to have folks look queer at him, and
make fun of his ways.”

“Why, Nelly, he don’t care for the laughing.”

“No matter; I do,” stoutly maintained the child; and going up to
the old man, she softly pulled his clean, patched sleeve, and said,
“Uncle Tommy, if you please, do look here!”

He did not seem to hear her for a little while; then passing his
hand across his forehead, as if rousing himself, he turned, with a
pleasant, cheering manner, to the children, who had gathered around
him: “Ah! little Nelly, is it you? and all my little people? why
you’re out early this good morning. May the blessing of Our Father
shine through your young hearts, making beautiful your lives, as
the sunshine makes beautiful your fresh young faces!”

“Uncle Tommy,” said John Anton, “what makes you love the sun so
like everything?”

Old Tommy smiled at the boy’s eagerness; but looking upward, he
answered: “I love it as the first, brightest gift of Our Father. I
see in it the purest emblem of Him whose dwelling _is_ the light.”
After a moment’s silence, he extended his hands over the children’s
heads, saying fervently, “Pour thy light into their souls, O
Father, that, the eyes of the mind being opened, they may see Thee
in all thy works!” Then taking Nelly by the hand, he asked, if
they were not too soon for school.

“Yes,” answered she; “for we came to hear the bells chime. It’s so
pleasant, Uncle Tommy, perhaps you will tell us something. Just a
little while, till the teachers come.”

“O yes, do now, Uncle Tommy, tell us some of the nice stories you
know,” chimed in the whole group.

“I’ll be still as a mouse, if you will,” coaxed a lively child,
whose ceaseless motion usually disturbed all quiet talk.

Uncle Tommy patted her curly head, and good-naturedly consented to
gratify them, “if they would try and be good as the flowers in the
meadow yonder.”

“Yes, yes, we will,” shouted they.

“Now lean on me, and I’ll help you, Uncle Tommy,” said Nelly, who
usually assumed the charge of him when she found an opportunity.
So, with one hand resting upon her shoulder, and the other
supported by his staff, the old man, who looked older now, as
his hat shaded his face, moved feebly forward, surrounded by the
happy children. They walked a few steps beyond the corner of the
church, and soon came to a projection in one of the buttresses,
that was often used by the people as a seat in summer; hither they
carefully led Uncle Tommy, who could still enjoy his beloved
sunshine, whilst he rested his weary limbs. It was a sight worthy
of an artist’s pencil; the ancient stone church, the venerable man,
the young children, the lofty trees, the birds, the shadows, the
sunlight, and the graves.

“Sha’n’t I take off your hat,” asked John, “so you can feel warm?”
and away went the hat, to the mutual satisfaction of Uncle Tommy
and the children; for they loved him, and liked to see his white
hair in the bright sunbeams,--“looking exactly like the ‘Mary’s
threads’ on the dewy grass, so silvery and shiny,” Nelly used to
say.

“What are you going to tell us?” urged the impatient little
Janette, softly.

He looked all around before speaking; up at the distant blue sky
flooded with light; abroad upon the fields clothed in richest
verdure; at the gently rustling elms; the oaks, the yews, and
hemlocks in the quiet churchyard; the eager living group at his
feet; all were seen in that one comprehensive glance. “It is my
birthday, little people,” said he, at length, smilingly nodding to
them.

“Why Uncle Tommy,” cried the astonished children, in their
simplicity, “do you have birthdays, like us? We thought you was too
old!”

“Yes, yes,” said he, shaking his head, “I’m very old, but I
remember my birthdays still. It’s ninety years, this blessed day,
since I came here a wee bit of a baby; and what a blessed Father
has led me the long weary way!”

“Shall you like to die, Uncle Tommy? Do you want to die?” asked
Nelly.

“I _want_, dear child, to live just as long as our Father pleases.
I don’t feel impatient to go nor to stay; ’cause that a’n’t right,
Nelly. I want to do exactly as God wills; but I sha’n’t feel sorry
to go when the time comes; all I _wish_ about it is, that the sun
may shine like _now_ when I go home, and that I may _know_ it.”

Another little boy here joined the group. He was the youngest
son of the Rector. He had only returned home the previous day
to pass the summer vacation, after a six months’ absence. There
was a little shyness at first between the children, which soon
disappeared before the kindly influence of the old man, in whose
eyes all human beings were recognized as the children of God. With
him there were no rich and no poor.

“Welcome home again, little Herman!” was his greeting, accompanied
by a smile so genial, it went straight to the boy’s heart.

“Thank you, Uncle Tommy,” said he, shaking hands, cordially. “I am
right glad to be here, I can assure you; and very glad to see you
in your old corner, looking so well. But what were you saying about
‘going home,’ when I interrupted you by coming up? Pray go on.”

Before he could answer, Janette said, “It’s Uncle Tommy’s birthday,
this is!”

“Indeed! and how old is he?” asked Herman, looking at the old man
for a reply.

“Ninety years, thank God,” was the cheerful answer.

“O what a long, long time to live!” slowly fell from Herman’s lips.
He was a delicate boy, and thoughtful beyond his years, as is
often the case with invalid children; and now he rested his pale,
intelligent face upon his hand, with his eyes fixed on Uncle Tommy,
and thought what a long, long time was ninety years! Then he looked
upon the graves, and wondered whether any of those whose bodies
were lying there knew what an old, old man was still seeing the
sun shine so long after they were gone. There were little graves
and large ones; Uncle Tommy knew almost all of them, and still he
lived on _all alone_; and _they_ had some of them left families.
He wondered on and on; his reverie was short, but crowded with
perplexing thoughts.

Uncle Tommy put an end to it, by saying, in answer to Herman’s
words, “The time is _only_ long, when I don’t mind our Father’s
will. When I obey, as the sun, and the wind, and all about us in
Nature does, then I’m as happy as a cretur can be; and time seems
just right. But what I was a saying about going home was this; I
a’n’t in a hurry to go, ’cause I’m here so long; nor am I wanting
to stay; only just as God pleases. But when the time _does_ come,
I’ll be glad to go home, after my school time here is over. P’r’aps
just as you feel now, Herman; and I hope when Uncle Tommy has
gone, with the sunshine, out there, you little people will learn
to love the fair works of God our Father, just as _he_ does now.
And don’t forget when you’re a going to be unkind or naughty, that
you little ones, and _all_ the little children, and _all_ the grown
people, are the fairest, noblest of God’s works. And if you think
of Uncle Tommy, when you see the sun shine, and the pretty flowers
and birds, and remember how _he_ loved them, think of him when you
are a going to strike one another, or do any naughty thing, and
remember how often he has told you about the dear Jesus, who took
little children in his arms and blessed them, and told all the
people, great and small, to love God best, and then to love one
another as they loved themselves. Now if you try to think of this,
I don’t believe you’ll be naughty very often; and the fewer times
you’re naughty, the happier you’ll be when you look round on this
dear beautiful world.”

“But, Uncle Tommy,” said Nelly, “we forget about being good
sometimes, when we get cross, and everybody scolds at us ’cause we
are so naughty; and that makes us act worse, ever so much; don’t
it, Ann?” appealing to a girl about her own age.

“Yes,” rejoined Ann, “nobody ever says anything about being good,
in the way you do, Uncle Tommy; except in Sunday School, and in
Church; and somehow it don’t seem just the same as when _you_
talk. Oh, Uncle Tommy, I believe we should always be good children,
if you could only be along with us all the time.”

“So do I!” “And I!” was heard from the little circle.

“Dear me!” cried Nelly, impatiently, “how I do wish we had a great
big world, all our own, with nobody ugly to plague us; only just
for Uncle Tommy and us to live in. _Then_ we’d be good as could be.
Don’t you wish so, dear Uncle Tommy?”

“No, dear children, I wish for no better, or bigger world to live
in, than this. Our Father put us here, and put it in our own
power to be happy; that means, to be good; and if we don’t make
out to do what He wants us to do here, I don’t believe we should
find it half as easy in a world such as folks dream about. It’s
a wrong notion, to my thinking, to s’pose we could behave better
in some other place than in the one where our lot’s cast in life,
or at some other time than the present time going over our heads.
Remember this, dear little people, when you grow up, and don’t wish
for anything it isn’t God’s will you should have. Try all you can
to mind the Lord, who loves you so well; and if trouble and sorrow
come to you, as they do to every human cretur, and you can be sure
it’s not your own doing, then patiently trust in our Father, and
remember what the dear bells say:--

  ‘For God doth prove
      Our constant friend;
   His boundless love
      Will never end.’

You’re little and young, and full of health now, so you don’t know
what I mean, as you will by and by, when you grow older; but you
can _remember_, if you can’t quite take it in, that I tell you,
after trying it for a good many years, I _know_ our happiness
depends a deal more on ourselves than on other people; and it’s
only when we’re lazy, and don’t want to stir ourselves, that we
think other people have an easier time than we do. B’lieve me,
dear children, everybody has the means of being happy or unhappy
in their _hearts_; and these they must take wherever they go; and
these make their home and their world.”

The bell for school began to ring, and the children sprang to their
feet instantly, saying, “Good by, Uncle Tommy! It’s school-time
now!” “Good by, little ones,” said he. “You go to one school, and
I’ll go to another, among the _dumb_ children of our Lord!”

Nelly and Ann lingered after the others a moment. “Uncle Tommy,”
said Ann, “we _will_ try to do as you want us to, and remember what
you say.”

He laid his hands upon their heads, and, looking up to Heaven,
said, “May the Spirit of the dear Lord be with ye, and guide your
tender feet in the narrow way of life! Bless them, Father, with
thy loving presence through their unending life!”

There was a moment’s pause; then Ann said earnestly, “I love dearly
to have you bless me, Uncle Tommy”; and with a “Good by,” off she
ran to school.

Nelly stopped a moment. She had nestled close to the old man’s
side without speaking, and now, throwing her arms around his neck
with a real overflowing of her young heart, she kissed his cheek,
and then darted off to join her companions in school. Uncle Tommy
was surprised, for Nelly did not often express her affection by
caresses, as most children do, but by kind deeds.

The action, slight though it was, touched a long silent chord
in the old man’s memory. The curtain veiling the past seemed
withdrawn, and again he was a child. There was the path from the
village across the church-yard, just as it was when first his
mother had led him to church, a tiny thing clinging to her skirts.
He was the youngest of seven, and the pet; O so long ago! He saw
again before him his young brothers and sisters, full of healthful
glee; then other forms of long-parted ones joined the procession of
years; his sisters’ and brothers’ children; his own cherished wife
and much-loved boys and girls: all gone, long, long years ago; and
he alone, of all that numerous company, remained. “Thou, Father,
hast ever been on my right hand and on my left; very safely hast
thou led me on through joy and sorrow unto this shining day;
blessed be thy holy name!”

So prayed the old man his last earthly thanksgiving. When the
people were dispersing to their homes after service, one, seeing
him sitting there in the sheltered nook, came to say “Good
morning”; and receiving no answer, he touched his hand. It was
cold. There he sat in the glorious sunshine, his old brown hat
by his side, wreathed with fresh grass and flowers, as was his
custom; but the freed spirit had gone to the Father he so lovingly
worshipped.

They made his grave in the sunniest part of the church-yard, where
an opening in the trees afforded a lovely view of the village and
the meadows, with the gentle flowing river, along whose peaceful
banks the old man had loved to wander, gathering flowers and leaves
and grasses, and throwing crumbs to the birds, who knew him too
well to fly from him. Here they laid him, at the last, and, instead
of monument or headstone, the children brought sweet flowering
shrubs, and wild brier from the lanes or fields, to plant around
his quiet grave.

“Uncle Tommy is not _there_,” said the children. “He has gone home.
This is only his poor _body_, here in the ground!” Thus did the
influence of his bright, ever-young spirit remain with the “little
people” long after Uncle Tommy had ceased to talk with them.




[Illustration]




SITTING IN THE SUN.


  When Hope deceives, and friends betray,
    And kinsmen shun me with a flout;
  When hair grows white, and eyes grow dim,
    And life’s slow sand is nigh run out,
  I’ll ask no boon of any one,
  But sing old songs, and sit i’ the sun.

  When memory is my only joy,
    And all my thoughts shall backward turn;
  When eyes shall cease to glow with love,
    And heart with generous fire to burn,
  I’ll ask no boon of any one,
  But sing old songs, and sit i’ the sun.

  When sounds grow low to deafening ears,
    And suns shine not as once they did;
  When parting is no more a grief,
    And I do whatsoe’er they bid,
  I’ll ask no boon of any one,
  But sing old songs, and sit i’ the sun.

  Then underneath a spreading elm,
    That guards some little cottage door,
  I’ll dance a grandchild on my knee,
    And count my past days o’er and o’er;
  I’ll ask no boon of any one,
  But sing old songs and sit i’ the sun.

                        ANONYMOUS.

       *       *       *       *       *

  How far from here to heaven?
    Not very far, my friend;
  A single hearty step
    Will all thy journey end.

  Hold there! where runnest thou?
    Know heaven is in thee!
  Seek’st thou for God elsewhere?
    His face thou’lt never see.

  Go out, God will go in;
    Die thou, and let Him live;
  Be not, and He will be;
    Wait, and He’ll all things give.

  I don’t believe in death.
    If hour by hour I die,
  ’Tis hour by hour to gain
    A better life thereby.

                        ANGELUS SILESIUS, A. D. 1620.




[Illustration]




AUNT KINDLY.

BY THEODORE PARKER


Miss Kindly is aunt to everybody, and has been, for so long a time,
that none remember to the contrary. The little children love her;
and she helped their grandmothers to bridal ornaments threescore
years ago. Nay, this boy’s grandfather found that the way to
college lay through her pocket. Generations not her own rise up
and call her blessed. To this man’s father her patient toil gave
the first start in life. When that great fortune was a seed, it
was she who carried it in her hand. That wide river of reputation
ran out of the cup which her bounty filled. Now she is old, very
old. The little children, who cling about her, with open mouth and
great round eyes, wonder that anybody should ever be so old; or ask
themselves whether Aunt Kindly ever had a mother to kiss her mouth.
To them she is coeval with the sun, and, like that, an institution
of the country. At Christmas, they think she is the wife of St.
Nicholas himself, such an advent is there of blessings from her
hand.

Her hands are thin, her voice is feeble, her back is bent, and she
walks with a staff, which is the best limb of the three. She wears
a cap of antique pattern, yet of her own nice make. She has great
round spectacles, and holds her book away off the other side of
the candle when she reads. For more than sixty years she has been
a special providence to the family. How she used to go forth, the
very charity of God, to heal and soothe and bless! How industrious
are her hands! How thoughtful and witty that fertile mind! Her
heart has gathered power to love in all the eighty-six years of
her toilsome life. When the birth-angel came to a related house,
she was there to be the mother’s mother; ay, mother also to the
new-born baby’s soul. And when the wings of death flapped in the
street and shook a neighbor’s door, she smoothed the pillow for the
fainting head; she soothed and cheered the spirit of the waiting
man, opening the curtains of heaven, that he might look through
and see the welcoming face of the dear Infinite Mother; nay, she
put the wings of her own strong, experienced piety under him, and
sought to bear him up.

Now, these things are passed by. No, they are not passed by; for
they are in the memory of the dear God, and every good deed she has
done is treasured in her own heart. The bulb shuts up the summer
in its breast, which in winter will come out a fragrant hyacinth.
Stratum after stratum, her good works are laid up, imperishable, in
the geology of her character.

It is near noon, now; and she is alone. She has been thoughtful all
day, talking inwardly to herself. The family notice it, but say
nothing. In her chamber, she takes a little casket from her private
drawer; and from thence a book, gilt-edged and clasped; but the
clasp is worn, the gilding is old, the binding faded by long use.
Her hands tremble as she opens it. First she reads her own name,
on the fly-leaf; only her Christian name, “Agnes,” and the date.
Sixty-eight years ago, this day, that name was written there, in
a clear, youthful, clerkly hand, with a little tremble in it, as
if the heart beat over quick. It is very well worn, that dear old
Bible. It opens of its own accord, at the fourteenth chapter of St.
John. There is a little folded paper there; it touches the first
verse and the twenty-seventh. She _sees_ neither; she reads both
out of her _soul_. “Let not your heart be troubled; ye believe in
God, believe also in me.” “Peace I leave with you. My peace I give
unto you. Not as the world giveth, give I unto you.” She opens the
paper. There is a little brown dust in it, the remnant of a flower.
She takes the precious relic in her hand, made cold by emotion. She
drops a tear on it, and the dust is transfigured before her eyes:
it is a red rose of the spring, not quite half blown, dewy fresh.
She is old no longer. She is not Aunt Kindly now; she is sweet
Agnes, as the maiden of eighteen was, eight and sixty years ago,
one day in May, when all nature was woosome and winning, and every
flower-bell rung in the marriage of the year. Her lover had just
put that red rose of the spring into her hand, and the good God put
another on her cheek, not quite half-blown, dewy fresh. The young
man’s arm is around her; her brown curls fall on his shoulder; she
feels his breath on her face, his cheek on hers; their lips join,
and like two morning dew-drops in that rose, their two loves rush
into one.

But the youth must wander away to a far land. She bids him take
her Bible. They will think of each other as they look at the North
Star. He saw the North Star hang over the turrets of many a foreign
town. His soul went to God;--there is as straight a road thither
from India as from any other spot. His Bible came back to her; the
Divine love in it, without the human lover; the leaf turned down at
the blessed words of St. John, first and twenty-seventh verse of
the fourteenth chapter. She put the rose there to mark the spot;
what marks the thought holds now the symbol of their youthful love.
To-day, her soul is with him; her maiden soul with his angel-soul;
and one day the two, like two dew-drops, will rush into one
immortal wedlock, and the old age of earth shall become eternal
youth in the kingdom of heaven.




[Illustration]




CROSSING OVER.

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND.


  Many a year is in its grave,
  Since I crossed this restless wave;
  And the evening, fair as ever,
  Shines on ruin, rock, and river.

  Then, in this same boat, beside,
  Sat two comrades old and tried;
  One with all a father’s truth,
  One with all the fire of youth.

  One on earth in silence wrought,
  And his grave in silence sought;
  But the younger, brighter form
  Passed in battle and in storm.

  So, whene’er I turn my eye
  Back upon the days gone by,
  Saddening thoughts of friends come o’er me;
  Friends who closed their course before me.

  Yet, what binds us, friend to friend,
  But that soul with soul can blend?
  Soul-like were those hours of yore--
  Let us walk in soul once more!

  Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee!
  Take! I give it willingly;
  For, invisibly to thee,
  Spirits twain have crossed with me.

       *       *       *       *       *

      They are all gone into a world of light,
        And I alone sit lingering here!
      Their very memory is fair and bright,
        And my sad thoughts doth clear.

      Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just!
        Shining nowhere but in the dark!
      What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
        Could man outlook that mark!

  He that hath found some fledged bird’s nest may know,
    At first sight, if the bird be flown;
  But what fair field or grove he sings in _now_,
    That is to him unknown.

  And yet, as angels, in some brighter dreams,
    Call to the soul when man doth sleep,
  So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,
    And into glory peep.

                        HENRY VAUGHAN.




[Illustration]




A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD.

BY MRS. GASKELL.


I thought, after Miss Jenkyns’s death, that probably my connection
with Cranford would cease. I was pleasantly surprised, therefore,
by receiving a letter from Miss Pole proposing that I should go
and stay with her. In a couple of days after my acceptance came a
note from Miss Matey Jenkyns, in which, in a rather circuitous and
very humble manner, she told me how much pleasure I should confer
if I could spend a week or two with her, either before or after I
had been at Miss Pole’s; “for,” she said, “since my dear sister’s
death, I am well aware I have no attractions to offer: it is only
to the kindness of my friends that I can owe their company.”

Of course I promised to go to dear Miss Matey as soon as I had
ended my visit to Miss Pole. The day after my arrival at Cranford,
I went to see her, much wondering what the house would be like
without Miss Jenkyns, and rather dreading the changed aspect of
things. Miss Matey began to cry as soon as she saw me. She was
evidently nervous from having anticipated my call. I comforted her
as well as I could; and I found the best consolation I could give
was the honest praise that came from my heart as I spoke of the
deceased. Miss Matey slowly shook her head over each virtue, as
it was named and attributed to her sister; at last she could not
restrain the tears which had long been silently flowing, but hid
her face behind her handkerchief, and sobbed aloud.

“Dear Miss Matey!” said I, taking her hand; for indeed I did not
know in what way to tell her how sorry I was for her, left deserted
in the world.

She put down her handkerchief and said: “My dear, I’d rather you
did not call me Matey. _She_ did not like it. But I did many a
thing she did not like, I’m afraid; and now she’s gone! If you
please, my love, will you call me Matilda?”

I promised faithfully, and began to practise the new name with Miss
Pole that very day; and, by degrees, Miss Matilda’s feeling on the
subject was known through Cranford, and the appellation of Matey
was dropped by all, except a very old woman, who had been nurse in
the rector’s family, and had persevered, through many long years,
in calling the Miss Jenkynses “the girls”: _she_ said “Matey” to
the day of her death.

       *       *       *       *       *

It seems that Miss Pole had a cousin, once or twice removed, who
had offered to Miss Matey long ago. Now, this cousin lived four or
five miles from Cranford, on his own estate; but his property was
not large enough to entitle him to rank higher than a yeoman; or,
rather, with something of the “pride which apes humility,” he had
refused to push himself on, as so many of his class had done, into
the rank of the squires. He would not allow himself to be called
Thomas Holbrook, Esq. He even sent back letters with this address,
telling the postmistress at Cranford that his name was Mr. Thomas
Holbrook, yeoman. He rejected all domestic innovations. He would
have the house door stand open in summer, and shut in winter,
without knocker or bell to summon a servant. The closed fist, or
the knob of the stick, did this office for him, if he found the
door locked. He despised every refinement which had not its root
deep down in humanity. If people were not ill, he saw no necessity
for moderating his voice. He spoke the dialect of the country in
perfection, and constantly used it in conversation; although Miss
Pole (who gave me these particulars) added, that he read aloud
more beautifully, and with more feeling, than any one she had ever
heard, except the late rector.

“And how came Miss Matilda not to marry him?” asked I.

“Oh, I don’t know. She was willing enough, I think; but you know
Cousin Thomas would not have been enough of a gentleman for the
rector and Mrs. and Miss Jenkyns.”

“Well, but _they_ were not to marry him,” said I, impatiently.

“No, but they did not like Miss Matey to marry below her rank. You
know she was the rector’s daughter, and somehow they are related to
Sir Peter Arley; Miss Jenkyns thought a deal of that.”

“Poor Miss Matey!” said I.

“Nay, now, I don’t know anything more than that he offered and was
refused. Miss Matey might not like him; and Miss Jenkyns might
never have said a word: it is only a guess of mine.”

“Has she never seen him since?” I inquired.

“No, I think not. You see Woodley (Cousin Thomas’s house) lies
half-way between Cranford and Misselton; and I know he made
Misselton his market-town very soon after he had offered to Miss
Matey; and I don’t think he has been into Cranford above once or
twice since. Once, when I was walking with Miss Matey in High
Street, she suddenly darted from me and went up Shire Lane. A few
minutes after, I was startled by meeting Cousin Thomas.”

“How old is he?” I asked, after a pause of castle-building.

“He must be about seventy, I think, my dear,” said Miss Pole,
blowing up my castle, as if by gun-powder, into small fragments.

Very soon after, I had the opportunity of seeing Mr. Holbrook;
seeing, too, his first encounter with his former love, after
thirty or forty years’ separation. I was helping to decide whether
any of the new assortment of colored silks, which they had just
received at the shop, would help to match a gray and black
mousseline-de-laine that wanted a new breadth, when a tall, thin,
Don Quixote-looking old man came into the shop for some woollen
gloves. I had never seen the person before, and I watched him
rather attentively, while Miss Matey listened to the shopman. The
stranger was rather striking. He wore a blue coat, with brass
buttons, drab breeches, and gaiters, and drummed with his fingers
on the counter, until he was attended to. When he answered the
shop-boy’s question, “What can I have the pleasure of showing you
to-day, sir?” I saw Miss Matilda start, and then suddenly sit down;
and instantly I guessed who it was. She had made some inquiry which
had to be carried round to the other shop.

“Miss Jenkyns wants the black sarcenet, two-and-twopence the yard.”
Mr. Holbrook caught the name, and was across the shop in two
strides.

“Matey,--Miss Matilda,--Miss Jenkyns! Bless my soul! I should not
have known you. How are you? how are you?” He kept shaking her
hand, in a way which proved the warmth of his friendship; but he
repeated so often, as if to himself, “I should not have known you!”
that any sentimental romance I might be inclined to build was quite
done away with by his manner.

However, he kept talking to us all the time we were in the shop;
and then waving the shopman, with the unpurchased gloves, on one
side, with “Another time, sir! another time!” he walked home with
us. I am happy to say Miss Matilda also left the shop in an equally
bewildered state; not having purchased either green or red silk.
Mr. Holbrook was evidently full with honest, loud-spoken joy at
meeting his old love again. He touched on the changes that had
taken place; he even spoke of Miss Jenkyns as “Your poor sister!
Well, well! we have all our faults”; and bade us good by with many
a hope that he should soon see Miss Matey again. She went straight
to her room, and never came back till our early tea-time, when I
thought she looked as if she had been crying.

A few days after, a note came from Mr. Holbrook, asking
us,--impartially asking both of us,--in a formal, old-fashioned
style, to spend a day at his house,--a long, June day,--for it was
June now. He named that he had also invited his cousin, Miss Pole;
so that we might join in a fly, which could be put up at his house.

I expected Miss Matey to jump at this invitation; but, no! Miss
Pole and I had the greatest difficulty in persuading her to go. She
thought it was improper; and was even half annoyed when we utterly
ignored the idea of any impropriety in her going with two other
ladies to see her old lover. Then came a more serious difficulty.
She did not think Deborah would have liked her to go. This took
us half a day’s good hard talking to get over; but, at the first
sentence of relenting, I seized the opportunity, and wrote and
despatched an acceptance in her name,--fixing day and hour, that
all might be decided and done with.

The next morning she asked me if I would go down to the shop with
her; and there, after much hesitation, we chose out three caps to
be sent home and tried on, that the most becoming might be selected
to take with us on Thursday.

She was in a state of silent agitation all the way to Woodley. She
had evidently never been there before, and although she little
dreamt I knew anything of her early story, I could perceive she was
in a tremor at the thought of seeing the place which might have
been her home, and round which it is probable that many of her
innocent, girlish imaginations had clustered. It was a long drive
there, through paved, jolting lanes. Miss Matilda sat bolt upright,
and looked wistfully out of the windows, as we drew near the end
of our journey. The aspect of the country was quiet and pastoral.
Woodley stood among fields, and there was an old-fashioned garden,
where roses and currant-bushes touched each other, and where the
feathery asparagus formed a pretty background to the pinks and
gilly-flowers. There was no drive up to the door. We got out at a
little gate, and walked up a straight, box-edged path.

“My cousin might make a drive, I think,” said Miss Pole, who was
afraid of ear-ache, and had only her cap on.

“I think it is very pretty,” said Miss Matey, with a soft
plaintiveness in her voice, and almost in a whisper, for just
then Mr. Holbrook appeared at the door, rubbing his hands in
the very effervescence of hospitality. He looked more like my
idea of Don Quixote than ever, and yet the likeness was only
external. His respectable housekeeper stood modestly at the door
to bid us welcome; and, while she led the elder ladies up-stairs
to a bed-room, I begged to look about the garden. My request
evidently pleased the old gentleman, who took me all round the
place, and showed me his six-and-twenty cows, named after the
different letters of the alphabet. As we went along, he surprised
me occasionally by repeating apt and beautiful quotations from
the poets, ranging easily from Shakespeare and George Herbert,
to those of our own day. He did this as naturally as if he were
thinking aloud; as if their true and beautiful words were the best
expression he could find for what he was thinking or feeling. To
be sure he called Byron “my lord Byrron,” and pronounced the name
of Goethe strictly in accordance with the English sound of the
letters. Altogether, I never met with a man, before or since, who
had spent so long a life in a secluded and not impressive country,
with ever-increasing delight in the daily and yearly change of
season and beauty.

When he and I went in, we found that dinner was nearly ready in
the kitchen; for so I suppose the room ought to be called, as
there were oak dressers and cupboards all round, all over by the
side of the fireplace, and only a small Turkey carpet in the
middle of the flag-floor. The room might have been easily made
into a handsome, dark-oak dining-parlor, by removing the oven,
and a few other appurtenances of a kitchen, which were evidently
never used; the real cooking-place being at some distance. The
room in which we were expected to sit was a stiffly furnished,
ugly apartment; but that in which we did sit was what Mr. Holbrook
called the counting-house, where he paid his laborers their weekly
wages, at a great desk near the door. The rest of the pretty
sitting-room--looking into the orchard, and all covered over with
dancing tree-shadows--was filled with books. They lay on the
ground, they covered the walls, they strewed the table. He was
evidently half ashamed and half proud of his extravagance in this
respect. They were of all kinds; poetry, and wild, weird tales
prevailing. He evidently chose his books in accordance with his own
tastes, not because such and such were classical, or established
favorites.

“Ah!” he said, “we farmers ought not to have much time for reading;
yet somehow one can’t help it.”

“What a pretty room!” said Miss Matey, _sotto voce_.

“What a pleasant place!” said I, aloud, almost simultaneously.

“Nay! if you like it,” replied he; “but can you sit on these great
black leather three-cornered chairs? I like it better than the best
parlor; but I thought ladies would take that for the smarter place.”

It was the smarter place; but, like most smart things, not at all
pretty, or pleasant, or home-like; so, while we were at dinner, the
servant-girl dusted and scrubbed the counting-house chairs, and we
sat there all the rest of the day.

We had pudding before meat, and I thought Mr. Holbrook was going
to make some apology for his old-fashioned ways; for he began, “I
don’t know whether you like new-fangled ways.”

“O, not at all!” said Miss Matey.

“No more do I,” said he. “My housekeeper _will_ have things in her
new fashion; or else I tell her, that when I was a young man, we
used to keep strictly to my father’s rule, ‘No broth, no ball; no
ball, no beef’; and always began dinner with broth. Then we had
suet puddings, boiled in the broth with the beef; and then the meat
itself. If we did not sup our broth, we had no ball, which we liked
a deal better; and the beef came last of all; and only those had it
who had done justice to the broth and the ball. Now, folks begin
with sweet things, and turn their dinners topsy-turvy.”

When the ducks and green peas came, we looked at each other in
dismay. We had only two-pronged, black-handled forks. It is true,
the steel was as bright as silver; but, what were we to do? Miss
Matey picked up her peas, one by one, on the point of the prongs.
Miss Pole sighed over her delicate young peas, as she left them on
one side of her plate untasted; for they _would_ drop between her
prongs. I looked at my host: the peas were going wholesale into his
capacious mouth, shovelled up by his large round-ended knife. I
saw, I imitated, I survived! My friends, in spite of my precedent,
could not muster up courage enough to do an ungenteel thing; and,
if Mr. Holbrook had not been so heartily hungry, he would probably
have seen that the good peas went away almost untouched.

After dinner, a clay pipe was brought in, and a spittoon; and,
asking us to retire to another room, where he would soon join us,
if we disliked tobacco-smoke, he presented his pipe to Miss Matey,
and requested her to fill the bowl. This was a compliment to a lady
in his youth; but it was rather inappropriate to propose it as an
honor to Miss Matey, who had been trained by her sister to hold
smoking of every kind in utter abhorrence. But if it was a shock to
her refinement, it was also a gratification to her feelings, to be
thus selected; so she daintly stuffed the strong tobacco into the
pipe; and then we withdrew.

“It is very pleasant dining with a bachelor,” said Miss Matey,
softly, as we settled ourselves in the counting-house; “I only hope
it is not improper; so many pleasant things are!”

“What a number of books he has!” said Miss Pole, looking round the
room. “And how dusty they are!”

“I think it must be like one of the great Dr. Johnson’s rooms,”
said Miss Matey. “What a superior man your cousin must be!”

“Yes!” said Miss Pole; “he’s a great reader; but I am afraid he has
got into very uncouth habits with living alone.”

“Oh! uncouth is too hard a word. I should call him eccentric: very
clever people always are!” replied Miss Matey.

When Mr. Holbrook returned, he proposed a walk in the fields;
but the two elder ladies were afraid of damp and dirt, and had
only very unbecoming calashes to put on over their caps; so they
declined, and I was again his companion in a turn which he said
he was obliged to take, to see after his niece. He strode along,
either wholly forgetting my existence, or soothed into silence by
his pipe; and yet it was not silence exactly. He walked before
me, with a stooping gait, his hands clasped behind him, and as
some tree, or cloud, or glimpse at distant upland pastures, struck
him, he quoted poetry to himself; saying it out loud, in a grand,
sonorous voice, with just the emphasis that true feeling and
appreciation give. We came upon an old cedar-tree, which stood at
one end of the house;

  ‘More black than ash-buds in the front of March,
  A cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade.’

“Capital term, ‘layers!’ Wonderful man!”

I did not know whether he was speaking to me or not; but I put in
an assenting “Wonderful,” although I knew nothing about it; just
because I was tired of being forgotten, and of being consequently
silent.

He turned sharp round. “Ay! you may say ‘wonderful.’ Why, when I
saw the review of his poems in ‘Blackwood,’ I set off within an
hour, and walked seven miles to Misselton (for the horses were not
in the way), and ordered them. Now, what color are ash-buds in
March?”

Is the man going mad? thought I. He is very like Don Quixote.

“What color are they, I say?” repeated he, vehemently.

“I am sure I don’t know sir,” said I, with the meekness of
ignorance.

“I knew you didn’t. No more did I, an old fool that I am! till this
young man comes and tells me. Black as ash-buds in March. And I’ve
lived all my life in the country; more shame for me not to know.
Black; they are jet-black, madam.” And he went off again, swinging
along to the music of some rhyme he had got hold of.

When we came home, nothing would serve him but that he must read
us the poems he had been speaking of; and Miss Pole encouraged
him in his proposal, I thought, because she wished me to hear his
beautiful reading, of which she had boasted; but she afterwards
said it was because she had got to a difficult part of crochet, and
wanted to count her stitches without having to talk. Whatever he
had proposed would have been right to Miss Matey, although she did
fall sound asleep within five minutes after he began a long poem,
called “Locksley Hall,” and had a comfortable nap, unobserved, till
he ended, when the cessation of his voice wakened her up, and she
said, feeling that something was expected, and that Miss Pole was
counting, “What a pretty book!”

“Pretty, madam? It’s beautiful! Pretty, indeed!”

“O yes, I meant beautiful!” said she, fluttered at his disapproval
of her word. “It is so like that beautiful poem of Dr. Johnson’s
my sister used to read!--I forget the name of it; what was it, my
dear?” turning to me.

“Which do you mean, ma’am? What was it about?”

“I don’t remember what it was about, and I’ve quite forgotten what
the name of it was; but it was written by Dr. Johnson, and was very
beautiful, and very like what Mr. Holbrook has just been reading.”

“I don’t remember it,” said he, reflectively; “but I don’t know Dr.
Johnson’s poems well. I must read them.”

As we were getting into the fly to return, I heard Mr. Holbrook
say he should call on the ladies soon, and inquire how they got
home; and this evidently pleased and fluttered Miss Matey at the
time he said it; but after we had lost sight of the old house among
the trees, her sentiments towards the master of it were gradually
absorbed into a distressing wonder as to whether Martha had broken
her word, and seized on the opportunity of her mistress’s absence
to have a “follower.” Martha looked good and steady and composed
enough, as she came to help us out; she was always careful of Miss
Matey, and to-night she made use of this unlucky speech: “Eh, dear
ma’am, to think of your going out in an evening in such a thin
shawl! It is no better than muslin. At your age, ma’am, you should
be careful.”

“My age!” said Miss Matey, almost speaking crossly, for her, for
she was usually gentle; “my age! Why, how old do you think I am,
that you talk about my age?”

“Well, ma’am, I should say you were not far short of sixty; but
folks’ looks is often against them, and I’m sure I meant no harm.”

“Martha, I’m not yet fifty-two!” said Miss Matey, with grave
emphasis; for probably the remembrance of her youth had come very
vividly before her this day, and she was annoyed at finding that
golden time so far away in the past.

But she never spoke of any former and more intimate acquaintance
with Mr. Holbrook. She had probably met with so little sympathy in
her early love, that she had shut it up close in her heart; and it
was only by a sort of watching, which I could hardly avoid since
Miss Pole’s confidence, that I saw how faithful her poor heart had
been in its sorrows and its silence.

She gave me some good reason for wearing her best cap every day,
and sat near the window, in spite of her rheumatism, in order to
see, without being seen, down into the street.

He came. He put his open palms upon his knees, which were far
apart, as he sat with his head bent down, whistling, after we had
replied to his inquiries about our safe return. Suddenly he jumped
up.

“Well, madam, have you any commands for Paris? I’m going there in a
week or two.”

“To Paris!” we both exclaimed.

“Yes, ma’am. I’ve never been there, and always had a wish to go;
and I think if I don’t go soon I mayn’t go at all. So as soon as
the hay is got in I shall go, before harvest-time.”

We were so much astonished that we had no commissions.

Just as he was going out of the room, he turned back, with his
favorite exclamation, “Bless my soul, madam! but I nearly forgot
half my errand. Here are the poems for you, you admired so much the
other evening at my house.” He tugged away at a parcel in his coat
pocket. “Good by, miss!” said he; “good by, Matey! take care of
yourself.” And he was gone. But he had given her a book, and he had
called her Matey, just as he used to do thirty years ago.

“I wish he would not go to Paris,” said Miss Matilda, anxiously. “I
don’t believe frogs will agree with him. He used to have to be very
careful what he ate, which was curious in so strong-looking a young
man.”

Soon after this I took my leave, giving many an injunction to
Martha to look after her mistress, and to let me know if she
thought that Miss Matilda was not so well; in which case I would
volunteer a visit to my old friend, without noticing Martha’s
intelligence to her.

Accordingly, I received a line or two from Martha every now and
then; and about November I had a note to say her mistress was “very
low and sadly off her food”; and the account made me so uneasy,
that, although Martha did not decidedly summon me, I packed up my
things and went.

I received a warm welcome, in spite of the little flurry produced
by my impromptu visit, for I had only been able to give a day’s
notice. Miss Matilda looked miserably ill, and I prepared to
comfort and cosset her.

I went down to have a private talk with Martha.

“How long has your mistress been so poorly?” I asked, as I stood by
the kitchen fire.

“Well, I think it’s better than a fortnight; it is, I know. It was
one Tuesday, after Miss Pole had been here, that she went into
this moping way. I thought she was tired, and it would go off with
a night’s rest; but no! she has gone on and on ever since, till I
thought it my duty to write to you, ma’am.”

“You did quite right, Martha. It is a comfort to think she has
so faithful a servant about her. And I hope you find your place
comfortable?”

“Well, ma’am, missus is very kind, and there’s plenty to eat and
drink, and no more work but what I can do easily; but--” Martha
hesitated.

“But what, Martha?”

“Why, it seems so hard of missus not to let me have any followers.
There’s such lots of young fellows in the town, and many a one has
as much as offered to keep company with me, and I may never be in
such a likely place again, and it’s like wasting an opportunity.
Many a girl as I know would have ’em unbeknowst to missus; but
I’ve given my word, and I’ll stick to it; or else this is just the
house for missus never to be the wiser if they did come. It’s such
a capable kitchen,--there’s such good dark corners in it,--I’d be
bound to hide any one. I counted up last Sunday night,--for I’ll
not deny I was crying because I had to shut the door in Jem Hearn’s
face; and he’s a steady young man, fit for any girl; only I had
given missus my word.” Martha was all but crying again; and I had
little comfort to give her, for I knew, from old experience, the
horror with which both the Miss Jenkynses looked upon “followers”;
and in Miss Matey’s present nervous state this dread was not like
to be lessened.

I went to see Miss Pole the next day, and took her completely by
surprise, for she had not been to see Miss Matilda for two days.

“And now I must go back with you, my dear,” said she; “for I
promised to let her know how Thomas Holbrook went on; and I’m sorry
to say his housekeeper has sent me word to-day that he hasn’t long
to live. Poor Thomas! That journey to Paris was quite too much
for him. His housekeeper says he has hardly ever been round his
fields since, but just sits with his hands on his knees in the
counting-house, not reading, or anything, but only saying, what a
wonderful city Paris was! Paris has much to answer for, if it’s
killed my cousin Thomas, for a better man never lived.”

“Does Miss Matilda know of his illness?” asked I, a new light as to
the cause of her indisposition dawning upon me.

“Dear! to be sure, yes! Has she not told you? I let her know a
fortnight ago, or more, when first I heard of it. How odd, she
shouldn’t have told you!”

Not at all, I thought; but I did not say anything. I felt almost
guilty of having spied too curiously into that tender heart; and
I was not going to speak of its secrets,--hidden, Miss Matey
believed, from all the world. I ushered Miss Pole into Miss
Matilda’s drawing-room; and then left them alone. But I was not
surprised when Martha came to my bed-room door, to ask me to go
down to dinner alone, for that missus had one of her bad headaches.
She came into the drawing-room at tea-time; but it was evidently
an effort for her. As if to make up for some reproachful feeling
against her late sister, Miss Jenkyns, which had been troubling her
all the afternoon, and for which she now felt penitent, she kept
telling me how good and how clever Deborah was in her youth, how
she used to settle what gowns they were to wear at all the parties;
(faint, ghostly ideas of dim parties far away in the distance,
when Miss Matey and Miss Pole were young!) and how Deborah and her
mother had started the benefit society for the poor, and taught
girls cooking and plain sewing; and how Deborah had danced with a
lord; and how she used to visit at Sir Peter Arley’s, and try to
remodel the quiet rectory establishment on the plans of Arley Hall,
where they kept thirty servants; and how she had nursed Miss Matey
through a long, long illness, of which I had never heard before,
but which I now dated, in my own mind, as following the dismissal
of the suit of Mr. Holbrook. So we talked softly and quietly of old
times, through the long November evening.

The next day, Miss Pole brought us word that Mr. Holbrook was dead.
Miss Matey heard the news in silence. In fact, from the account on
the previous day, it was only what we had to expect. Miss Pole kept
calling upon us for some expressions of regret, by asking if it was
not sad that he was gone, and saying,--

“To think of that pleasant day last June, when he seemed so well!
And he might have lived this dozen years, if he had not gone to
that wicked Paris, where they are always having Revolutions.”

She paused for some demonstration on our part. I saw Miss Matey
could not speak, she was trembling so nervously, so I said what
I really felt; and after a call of some duration,--all the time
of which I have no doubt Miss Pole thought Miss Matey received
the news very calmly,--our visitor took her leave. But the effort
at self-control Miss Matey had made to conceal her feelings,--a
concealment she practised even with me; for she has never alluded
to Mr. Holbrook again, although the book he gave her lies with her
Bible on the little table by her bedside. She did not think I heard
her when she asked the little milliner of Cranford to make her caps
something like the Hon. Mrs. Jamieson’s; or that I noticed the
reply,--

“But she wears widows’ caps, ma’am?”

“O, I only meant something in that style; not widows’, of course,
but rather like Mrs. Jamieson’s.”

This effort at concealment was the beginning of the tremulous
motion of head and hands, which I have seen ever since in Miss
Matey.

The evening of the day on which we heard of Mr. Holbrook’s death,
Miss Matilda was very silent and thoughtful; after prayers, she
called Martha back, and then she stood uncertain what to say.

“Martha!” she said at last; “you are young,”--and then she made
so long a pause, that Martha, to remind her of her half-finished
sentence, dropped a courtesy, and said: “Yes, please, ma’am;
two-and-twenty last third October, please, ma’am.”

“And perhaps, Martha, you may some time meet with a young man you
like, and who likes you. I did say you were not to have followers;
but if you meet with such a young man, and tell me, and I find he
is respectable, I have no objection to his coming to see you once a
week. God forbid!” said she, in a low voice, “that I should grieve
any young hearts.”

She spoke as if she were providing for some distant contingency,
and was rather startled when Martha made her ready, eager answer:
“Please, ma’am, there’s Jem Hearn, and he’s a joiner, making
three-and-sixpence a day, and six foot one in his stocking-feet,
please, ma’am; and if you’ll ask about him to-morrow morning, every
one will give him a character for steadiness; and he’ll be glad
enough to come to-morrow night, I’ll be bound.”

Though Miss Matey was startled, she submitted to Fate and Love.

       *       *       *       *       *

    God is our Father. Heaven is his high throne, and this earth
    is his footstool; and while we sit around and meditate, or
    pray, one by one, as we fall asleep, He lifts us into his
    bosom, and our awaking is inside the gates of an everlasting
    world.--MOUNTFORD.




[Illustration]




TO MY WIFE.

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF OUR WEDDING.


  Now, Time and I, near fifty years,
    Have managed kindly to agree;
  Pleased with the friendship he appears,
    And means that all the world shall see.

  For, with soft touch about my eyes,
    The frosty, kindly, jealous friend
  His drawing-pencil deftly plies,
    And mars the face he thinks to mend.

  Nor am I called _alone_ to wear
    Old Time, “His mark,” in deepening trace;
  That “twain are one,” this limner sere
    Will print in lines on either face.

  ’Tis not, perhaps, a gallant thing
    On such a morning to be told,
  But Time doth yearly witness bring,
    That--Bless you! _we_ are growing old.

  Together we have lived and loved,
    Together passed through smiles and tears,
  And life’s all-varying lessons proved
    Through many constant married years.

  And there is joy Time cannot reach,
    A youth o’er which no power he hath,
  If we cling closer, each to each,
    And each to God, in hope and faith.

                        ANONYMOUS.

       *       *       *       *       *

  In the summer evenings, when the wind blew low,
  And the skies were radiant with the sunset glow,
  Thou and I were happy, long, long years ago!
  Love, the young and hopeful, hovered o’er us twain,
  Filled us with sad pleasure and delicious pain,
  In the summer evenings, wandering in the lane.

  In the winter evenings, when the wild winds roar,
  Blustering in the chimney, piping at the door,
  Thou and I are happy, as in days of yore.
  Love still hovers o’er us, robed in white attire,
  Drawing heavenly music from an earthly lyre,
  In the winter evenings, sitting by the fire.

                        ANONYMOUS.




[Illustration]




THE EVERGREEN OF OUR FEELINGS.

EXTRACTS FROM THE GERMAN OF J. P. RICHTER.


I oppose, as I would every useless fear in men, the lamentation
that our feelings grow old with the lapse of years. It is the
narrow heart alone which does not grow; the wide one becomes
larger. Years shrivel the one, but they expand the other. Man often
mistakes concerning the glowing depths of his feelings; forgetting
that they may be present in all their energy, though in a state
of repose. In the wear and tear of daily life, amid the care of
providing support, perchance under misdemeanors, in comparing
one child with another, or in daily absences, thou mayest not be
conscious of the fervent affection smouldering under the ashes
of every-day life, which would at once blaze forth into a flame,
if thy child were suffering innocently, or condemned to die.
Thy love was already there, prior to the suffering of thy child
and thyself. It is the same in wedlock and friendship. In the
familiarity of daily presence, the heart beats and glows silently;
but in the hours of meeting and parting, the beautiful radiance of
a long-nurtured flame reveals itself. It is on such occasions that
man always most pleases me. I am then reminded of the glaciers,
which beam forth in rosy-red transparency only at the rising and
setting of the sun, while throughout the day they look gray and
dark.

A golden mine of affection, of which the smallest glimmer is
scarcely visible, lies buried in the breast until some magic word
reveals it, and then man discovers his ancient treasure. To me, it
is a delightful thought that, during the familiarity of constant
proximity, the heart gathers up in silence the nutriment of love,
as the diamond, even beneath water, imbibes the light it emits.
Time, which deadens hatred, secretly strengthens love; and in the
hour of threatened separation its growth is manifested at once in
radiant brightness.

Another reason why man fancies himself chilled by old age, is that
he can then feel interested only in higher objects than those which
once excited him. The lover of nature, the preacher, the poet, the
actor, or the musician, may, in declining years, find themselves
slightly affected by what delighted them in youth; but this need
produce no fear that time will mar their sensibility to nature,
art, and love. Thou, as well as I, may indeed weep less frequently
than formerly, at the theatre or at concerts; but give us a truly
excellent piece, and we cannot suppress the emotion it excites.
Youth is like unbleached wax, which melts under feeble sun-beams,
while that which has been whitened is scarcely warmed by them. The
mature or aged man avoids those tears which youth invites; because
in him they flow too hot, and dry too slowly.

Select a man of my age, and of my heart, with my life-long want
of highland scenery, and conduct him to the valley of the Rhine!
Bring him to that long, attractive, sea-like river, flowing
between vine-clad hills on either side, as between two regions of
enchantment, reflecting only scenes of pleasure, creating islands
for the sake of clasping them in its arms; let also a reflection of
the setting sun glow upon its waters; and surely youth would again
be mirrored in the old man, and that still ocean of infinity, which
in the true and highest heaven permits us to look down.

Memory, wit, fancy, acuteness, cannot grow young again in old age;
but the _heart_ can. In order to be convinced of this, we need
only remember how the hearts of poets have glowed in the autumn
and winter seasons of life. He who in old age can do without love,
never in his youth possessed the right sort, over which years have
no power. During winter, it is the withered branches, not the
living germs, that become encrusted with ice. The loving heart
will indeed often bashfully conceal a portion of its warmth behind
children and grandchildren; so that last love is perhaps as coy as
the first. But if an aged eye, full of soul, is upraised, gleaming
with memories of its spring-time, is there anything in that to
excite ridicule? Even if it were silently moistened, partly through
gladness, and partly through a feeling of the past, would it not be
excusable? Might not an aged hand presume to press a young hand,
merely to signify thereby, I, too, was once in Arcadia, and within
me Arcadia still remains? In the better sort of men love is an
interior sentiment, born in the soul; why should it not continue
with the soul to the end? It is a part of the attraction of tender
and elevated love that its consecrated hours leave in the heart a
gentle, continuous, distinct influence; just as, sometimes, upon a
heavenly spring-evening, fragrance, exhaled from warm blossoms in
the surrounding country penetrates every street of a city that has
no gardens.

I would exhort men to spare every true affection, and not to
ridicule the overflowings of a happy heart with more license than
they would the effusions of a sorrowing one. For the youth of the
soul is everlasting, and eternity is youth.




[Illustration]




OUR SECRET DRAWER.


  There is a secret drawer in every heart,
    Wherein we lay our treasures, one by one;
  Each dear remembrance of the buried past,
    Each cherished relic of the time that’s gone.

  The old delights of childhood, long ago;
    The things we loved because we knew them best;
  The first discovered primrose in our path;
    The cuckoo’s earliest note; the robin’s nest;

  The merry haymakings around our home;
    Our rambles in the summer woods and lanes;
  The story told beside the winter fire,
    While the wind moaned across the window panes;

  The golden dreams we dreamt in after years,
    Those magic visions of our young romance;
  The sunny nooks, the fountains and the flowers,
    Gilding the fairy landscape of our trance;

  The link which bound us, later still, to one
    Who fills a corner in our life to-day,
  Without whose love we dare not dream how dark
    The rest would seem, if it were gone away;

  The song that thrilled our souls with very joy;
    The gentle word that unexpected came;
  The gift we prized because the thought was kind;
    The thousand, thousand things that have no name;

  All these, in some far hidden corner lie,
    Within the mystery of that secret drawer,
  Whose magic springs though stranger hands may touch,
    Yet none may gaze upon its guarded store.

                        ANONYMOUS.

       *       *       *       *       *

  “How seldom, friend, a great, good man inherits
  Honor, or wealth, with all his worth and pains.”
  “For shame, dear friend, renounce this canting strain
  _What_ wouldst thou that the great, good man obtain?
  Place, title, salary,--a gilded chain?
  Or throne on corpses which his sword has slain?
  Goodness and greatness are not _means_, but _ends_.
  Hath he not always treasures, always friends,
  The great, good man? Three treasures, love, and light,
  And calm thoughts, regular as infant’s breath;
  And three true friends, more sure than day and night,--
  Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death.”

                        COLERIDGE.




[Illustration]




THE GOLDEN WEDDING.

    The German custom of observing a festival called the Silver
    Wedding, on the twenty-fifth anniversary of marriage, and a
    Golden Wedding on the fiftieth anniversary, have now become
    familiar to us by their frequent observance in this country.
    The following description of such an anniversary in Sweden is
    from the graceful pen of Fredrika Bremer, in her work entitled
    “The Neighbors.”


There was a patriarch and wife, and only to see that ancient,
venerable couple made the heart rejoice. Tranquillity was upon
their brows, cheerful wisdom on their lips, and in their glance
one read love and peace. For above half a century this ancient
couple have inhabited the same house and the same rooms. There they
were married, and there they are soon to celebrate their golden
nuptials. The rooms are unchanged, the furniture the same it has
been for fifty years; but everything is clean, comfortable, and
friendly, as in a one-year-old dwelling, though much more simple
than the houses of our time. I know not what spirit of peace and
grace it is which breathes upon me in this house! Ah! in this
house fifty years have passed as a beautiful day. Here a virtuous
couple have lived, loved, and worked together. Many a pure joy has
blossomed here; and when sorrow came, it was not bitter, for the
fear of God and mutual love illuminated the dark clouds. Hence has
emanated many a noble deed, and many a beneficent influence. Happy
children grew up. They gathered strength from the example of their
parents, went out into the world, built for themselves houses, and
were good and fortunate. Often do they return to the parental home,
to bless and to be blessed.

A long life of integrity, industry, and beneficence has impressed
itself on the father’s expansive forehead, and on his frank,
benevolent deportment. His figure is yet firm, and his gait steady.
The lofty crown is bald, but the venerable head is surrounded by
silver-white locks, like a garland. No one in the city sees this
head without bowing in friendly and reverential greeting. The whole
country, as well as the city, loves him as their benefactor, and
venerates him as their patriarch. He has created his own fortune,
and sacrificed much for the public good; and notwithstanding much
adversity and loss, he has never let his spirit sink. In mind and
conversation he is still cheerful, full of jest and sprightliness.
But for several years his sight has failed him greatly; and at
times the gout troubles his temper. But an angel moves round the
couch to which suffering confines him; his feet are moved and
enwrapped by soft white hands; the sick-chamber and the countenance
of the old man grow bright before his orphan grandchild, Serena.

In the aged countenance and bowed form of the mother you see an old
woman. But show her something beautiful, speak to her of something
worthy of love, and her mien, her smile, beams from the eternal
youth which dwells immortal in her sensitive spirit. Then you
involuntarily exclaim, “What beautiful age!” If you sit near her,
and look into her mild, pious eyes, you feel as if you could open
your whole soul, and believe in every word she speaks, as in the
Gospel. She has lived through much and experienced much; yet she
still says she will live in order to learn. Truly we must all learn
from _her_. Her tone and manner betoken true politeness, and much
knowledge of life. She alone has educated her children, and she
still thinks and acts both for children and children’s children.

Will you see in one little circumstance a miniature picture of the
whole? Every evening the old man himself roasts two apples; every
evening, when they are done, he gives one of them to his “handsome
old wife,” as he calls her. Thus for fifty years have they divided
everything with each other.

       *       *       *       *       *

And now the day for their Golden Wedding has arrived. The whole
city and country take an interest in it. It is as if all the people
in the place were related to the old Dahls. The young people
come from east and west,--Dahls here, Dahls there, brave men and
handsome children. A swarm of cousins encounter one another at
every step. Brotherships and friendships are concluded.

If you wish to learn the true value of marriage,--if you wish
to see what this union may be for two human hearts, and for
life,--then observe, not the wedded ones in their honeymoon, nor
by the cradle of their first child; not at a time when novelty and
hope yet throw a morning glory over the young and new-born world of
home; but survey them, rather, in the more remote years of manhood,
when they have proved the world and each other; when they have
conquered many an error, and many a temptation, in order to become
only the more united to each other; when labors and cares are
theirs; when, under the burden of the day, as well as in hours of
repose, they support one another, and find that they are sufficient
for each other. Or survey them still farther in life. See them
arrived at that period when the world, with all its changes and
agitations, rolls far away from them; when every object around
becomes more dim to them; when their house is still; when they are
solitary, yet they stand there hand in hand, and each reads in the
other’s eyes only love; when they, with the same memories and the
same hopes, stand on the boundaries of another life, into which
they are prepared to enter, of all desires retaining only the one
that they may die on the same day. Yes, then behold them! And,
on that account, turn now to the patriarchs, and to their Golden
Wedding.

There is, indeed, something worth celebrating, thought I, when I
awoke in the morning. The sun seemed to be of the same opinion,
for it shone brightly on the snow-covered roof of the aged
pair. I wrapped myself in my cloak, and went forth to carry my
congratulations to the old people, and to see if I could be helpful
to Serena. The aged couple sat in the anteroom, clad in festal
attire, each in their own easy-chair. A large bouquet of fresh
flowers and a hymn-book were on the table. The sun shone in through
snow-white curtains. It was peaceful and cheerful in the room.
The patriarch appeared, in the sunny light, as if surrounded by a
glory. I offered my congratulations with emotion, and was embraced
by them, as by a father and mother. “A lovely day, Madame Werner,”
said the old gentleman, as he looked toward the window. “Yes,
beautiful indeed,” I answered. “It is the feast of love and truth
on the earth.” The two old people smiled, and clasped each other’s
hands.

There was great commotion in the hall, caused by the arrival of
troops of children and grandchildren, who all, in holiday garb,
and with joyous looks, poured in to bring their wishes of happiness
to the venerable parents. It was charming to see these groups of
lovely children cling round the old people, like young saplings
round aged stems. It was charming to see the little rosy mouths
turned up to kiss, the little arms stretching to embrace them, and
to hear the clamor of loving words and exulting voices.

I found Serena in the kitchen, surrounded by people, and dealing
out viands; for to-day the Dahls made a great distribution of food
and money to the poor. Serena accompanied the gifts with friendly
looks and words, and won blessings for her grandparents.

       *       *       *       *       *

At eight in the evening, the wedding guests began to assemble. In
the street where they lived the houses were illuminated in honor of
the patriarchs, and lamps burned at the corners. A great number of
people, with glad countenances, wandered up and down the street, in
the still, mild winter evening. The house of the Dahls was thrown
into the shade by the brilliancy of those in the neighborhood; but
there was light within.

Serena met me at the door of the saloon. She wore a white garland
in her light-brown hair. How charming she was in her white dress,
with her kindly blue eyes, her pure brow, and the heavenly smile
on her lips! She was so friendly, so amiable, to everybody! Friends
and relatives arrived; the rooms became filled. They drank tea,
ate ices, and so on; and then there fell at once a great silence.
The two old people seated themselves in two easy-chairs, which
stood near each other in the middle of the saloon, on a richly
embroidered mat. Their children and their children’s children
gathered in a half-circle round them. A clergyman of noble presence
stepped forward, and pronounced an oration on the beauty and
holiness of marriage. He concluded with a reference to the life
of the venerable pair, which was in itself a better sermon on the
excellence of marriage, for the human heart, and for life, than
was his speech, though what he said was true and touching. There
was not a dry eye in the whole company. All were in a solemn,
affectionate mood.

Meantime, preparations for the festival were completed in the
second story, to which the guests ascended. Here _tableaux_ were
presented, whose beauty and grace exceeded everything I had
anticipated. The last one consisted of a well-arranged group of
all the descendants of the Dahls, during the exhibition of which
a chorus was sung. The whole exhibition gave great and general
pleasure. When the chorus ceased, and the curtain fell, the doors
of the dance-saloon flew open; a dazzling light streamed thence,
and lively music set all the hearts and feet of the young people
in lively motion.

We sat talking pleasantly together, till supper was served, on
various little tables, in three rooms. Lagman Hok raised his glass,
and begged permission to drink a toast. All were attentive. Then,
fixing a mild, confident gaze on the patriarchs, he said, in a low
voice: “Flowers and Harps were woven into the mat on which our
honored friends this evening heard the words of blessing pronounced
over them. They are the symbols of Happiness and Harmony; and these
are the Penates of this house. That they surround you in this
festive hour, venerable friends, we cannot regard
               as an accident. I seemed to hear them
                say, ‘During your union you have so
                  welcomed and cherished us, that
                    we are at home here, and can
                      never forsake you. Your
                       age shall be like your
                              youth!’”

[Illustration]

    The wisest man may be wiser to-day than he was yesterday, and
    to-morrow than he is to-day.

                                                             COLTON.




[Illustration]




THE WORN WEDDING RING.

BY W. C. BENNETT.


  Your wedding ring wears thin, dear wife. Ah summers not a few,
  Since I put it on your finger first, have passed o’er me and you.
  And, love, what changes we have seen! what cares and pleasures too!
  Since you became my own dear wife, when this old ring was new.

  O blessings on that happy day, the happiest of my life,
  When, thanks to God, your low, sweet “Yes” made you my loving wife!
  Your heart will say the same, I know; that day’s as dear to you,
  The day that made me yours, dear wife, when this old ring was new.

  How well do I remember now your young, sweet face that day!
  How fair you were, how dear you were, my tongue could hardly say;
  Nor how I doated on you. Ah, how proud I was of you!
  But did I love you more than now, when this old ring was new?

  No! No! no fairer were you then, than at this hour, to me;
  And dear as life to me this day, how could you dearer be?
  As sweet your face might be that day as now it is, ’tis true;
  But did I know your _heart_ as well, when this old ring was new?

  O partner of my gladness, wife, what care, what grief, is there
  For me you would not bravely face? with me you would not share?
  O, what a weary want had every day, if wanting _you_!
  Wanting the love that God made mine when this old ring was new!

  Years bring fresh links to bind us, wife,--small voices that are here,
  Small faces round our fire that make their mother’s yet more dear,
  Small, loving hearts, your care each day makes yet more like to you,
  More like the loving heart made mine when this old ring was new.

  And, blessed be God, all He has given are with us yet; around
  Our table every little life lent to us still is found;
  Though cares we’ve known, with hopeful hearts the worst we’ve struggled
          through;
  Blessed be His name for all His love since this old ring was new.

  The past is dear; its sweetness still our memories treasure yet;
  The griefs we’ve borne, together borne, we would not now forget.
  Whatever, wife, the future brings, heart unto heart still true,
  We’ll share, as we have shared all else, since this old ring was new.

  And if God spare us, ’mongst our sons and daughters to grow old,
  We know His goodness will not let your heart or mine grow cold.
  Your aged eyes will see in mine all they’ve still shown to you;
  And mine in yours all they have seen since this old ring was new.

  And O, when death shall come at last to bid me to my rest,
  May I die looking in those eyes, and resting on that breast!
  O, may my parting gaze be blessed with the dear sight of you!
  Of those fond eyes,--fond as they were when this old ring was new.

                        CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL.




[Illustration]




HINTS ABOUT HEALTH.

BY L. MARIA CHILD.


There are general rules of health, that cannot be too often
repeated and urged, concerning which physicians of all schools are
nearly unanimous. All who are acquainted with the physical laws of
our being, agree that too much food is eaten. As far back as the
twelfth century, the School of Salerno, the first Medical School
established in Europe, published Maxims for Health, among which
were the following: “Let these three things be your physicians;
cheerfulness, moderate repose, and diet.” “Eat little supper, and
you will sleep quietly.” A few years ago, the celebrated French
physician, Dumoulin, in his last illness, said to friends who were
lamenting the loss of his medical services, “I shall leave behind
me three physicians much greater than I am: water, exercise, and
diet.”

The Rev. Sydney Smith says: “The longer I live, the more I am
convinced that half the unhappiness in the world proceeds from
little stoppages; from a duct choked up, from food pressing in
the wrong place, from a vexed duodenum, or an agitated pylorus.
The deception, as practised upon human creatures, is curious and
entertaining. My friend sups late; he eats some strong soup, then a
lobster, then some tart, and he dilutes these excellent varieties
with wine. The next day I call upon him. He is going to sell his
house in London, and to retire into the country. He is alarmed for
his eldest daughter’s health. His expenses are hourly increasing,
and nothing but a timely retreat can save him from ruin. All this
is the lobster. Old friendships are sometimes destroyed by toasted
cheese, and hard salted meat has led to suicide. I have come to
the conclusion that mankind consume twice too much food. According
to my computation, I have eaten and drunk, between my tenth and
seventieth year, forty-four horse-wagon loads more than was good
for me.”

The example of Ludovicus Cornaro is a very striking proof of the
advantages of abstinence. Modern physicians agree with him, that it
is particularly wise for people, as they grow older, to diminish
the quantity of _solid_ food. Little should be eaten, especially by
those who do not exercise greatly; and that little should be light
and nutritious. It is also important that food and sleep should be
taken at regular intervals.

Early rising, and frequent, though not excessive exercise, are
extremely conducive to good health and good spirits. There is now
living in South Kingston, R. I., an old man, named Ebenezer Adams,
who is past ninety, and has never called upon a physician, or taken
a single prescription, in his whole life. He has mowed every season
for the last seventy-five years. The past summer he has raised
with his own hands one hundred and thirty bushels of potatoes, and
harvested them himself; conveying them about three quarters of a
mile, in a wheelbarrow, to his house. He has raised and harvested
forty bushels of corn himself. He has mowed and put up, without the
help of man or beast, six tons of hay. He hauled it on hay-poles of
his own manufacture, and put it in the barn himself. He carries his
corn two miles and a half, two bushels at a time, in a wheelbarrow,
to the mill, himself. Rainy weather, and in winter, he is at work
at his trade as a cooper. His uninterrupted health is doubtless
mainly owing to constant exercise in the open air.

The Rev. John Wesley, speaking of his remarkable freedom from
fatigue amid the incessant labors of his old age, says: “I owe it
to the goodness of God. But one natural cause undoubtedly is my
continual exercise, and change of air. How the latter contributes
to health, I know not; but it undoubtedly does.”

The Duke of Wellington, who retained his mental and physical
faculties, in a remarkable degree, to an advanced age, lived with
so much simplicity, that a celebrated cook left his service on the
plea that he had no opportunity to display his skill. He was in the
habit of applying vigorous friction to all his body daily. He slept
on his narrow, iron camp bedstead, and walked briskly, or rode on
horseback, while other gentlemen were sleeping. He made no use of
tobacco in any form. For many years he refrained from the use of
wine, saying he found no advantage from it, and relinquished it for
the sake of his health.

The Hon. Josiah Quincy is a memorable example of vigorous old age.
He has always been an early riser, and very active in his habits,
both intellectual and physical. For many years, he has practised
gymnastics fifteen minutes every morning, before dressing; throwing
his limbs about with an agility which few young men could surpass.
Believing the healthy state of the skin to be of great importance,
he daily applies friction to his whole body, by means of horse-hair
gloves. He is temperate in his diet, and rarely tastes of wine. He
is careful not to let his mind rust for want of use. He is always
adding to his stock of knowledge, and he takes a lively interest
in public affairs. He is now past ninety; yet few have spoken so
wisely and boldly as he has concerning the national emergencies
which have been occurring during the last ten years. He profits by
a hint he received from the venerable John Adams, in answer to the
question how he had managed to preserve the vigor of his mind to
such an advanced age. “Simply by exercising it,” replied Mr. Adams.
“Old minds are like old horses; you must exercise them if you wish
to keep them in working order.”

A few years since, the Rev. Daniel Waldo addressed the graduates at
Yale College, on Commencement Day. In the course of his remarks, he
said: “I am now an old man. I have seen nearly a century. Do you
want to know how to grow old slowly and happily? Let me tell you.
Always eat slowly; masticate well. Go to your food, to your rest,
to your occupations, smiling. Keep a good nature and a soft temper
everywhere. Never give way to anger. A violent tempest of passion
tears down the constitution more than a typhus fever.”

Leigh Hunt says: “Do not imagine that mind alone is concerned
in your bad spirits. The body has a great deal to do with these
matters. The mind may undoubtedly affect the body; but the body
also affects the mind. There is a reaction between them; and by
lessening it on either side you diminish the pain of both. If you
are melancholy, and know not why, be assured it must arise entirely
from some physical weakness, and do your best to strengthen
yourself. The blood of a melancholy man is thick and slow. The
blood of a lively man is clear and quick. Endeavor, therefore, to
put your blood in motion. Exercise is the best way to do it.”

The homely old maxim,--

  “After breakfast, work a while;
  After dinner, sit and smile;
  After supper, walk a mile,”--

contains a good deal of practical wisdom. Manual labor in the
forenoon; cheerful conversation, or music, after dinner; a light
supper, at five or six o’clock, and a pleasant walk afterward,
will preserve health, and do much to restore it, if undermined. A
walk at any period of the day does the body twice as much good if
connected with some object that interests the mind or heart. To
walk out languidly into infinite space, merely to aid digestion, as
rich epicures are wont to do, takes half the virtue out of exercise.

An aged clergyman, who had never known a day’s illness, was asked
how he accounted for it. He replied, “Dry feet and early rising
have been my only precautions.” In “Hall’s Journal of Health” I
find the following advice, of which I know the value by experience:
“If you are well, let yourself alone. This is our favorite motto.
But to you whose feet are inclined to be cold, we suggest that as
soon as you get up in the morning, put your feet at once in a basin
of cold water, so as to come half-way to the ankles; keep them in
half a minute in winter, or two minutes in summer, rubbing them
both vigorously; wipe dry, and hold to the fire, if convenient,
in cold weather, until every part of the foot feels as dry as your
hand, then put on your socks or stockings. On going to bed at
night, draw off your stockings, and hold the foot to the fire for
ten or fifteen minutes, until perfectly dry, and get right into
bed. This is a most pleasant operation, and fully repays for the
trouble of it. No one can sleep well or refreshingly with cold
feet. Never step from your bed with the naked feet on an uncarpeted
floor. I have known it to be the exciting cause of months of
illness. Wear woollen, cotton, or silk stockings, whichever keep
your feet most comfortable; do not let the experience of another be
your guide, for different persons require different articles; what
is good for a person whose feet are naturally damp, cannot be good
for one whose feet are always dry.”

In Italy, and all the other grape-growing countries of Europe,
people have the habit of drinking wine with breakfast. Cornaro
followed the general custom, and he recommends a moderate use of
wine as essential to old people. But at that remote period there
was less knowledge of the physical laws than there now is. He
confesses that he always found old wine very deleterious to him,
and that for many years he never tasted any but new wine. Sir
Walter Raleigh, who was born only ninety years later than Cornaro,
gives the following sensible advice: “Except thou desire to hasten
thy end, take this for a general rule: that thou never add any
artificial heat to thy body by wine or spice, until thou find that
time hath decayed thy natural heat; and the sooner thou dost begin
to help Nature, the sooner she will forsake thee, and leave thee to
trust altogether to art.”

The late Dr. Warren, in his excellent little book on the
“Preservation of Health,” bears the following testimony: “Habitual
temperance in regard to the quantity of food, regular exercise,
and abstinence from all stimulants except for medicinal purposes,
would greatly diminish or obviate the evils of age. It is idle to
say that men can and do live sometimes even to great age under
the practice of various excesses, particularly under the use of
stimulants. The natural and sufficient stimulus of the stomach
is healthy food. Any stimulus more active produces an unnatural
excitement, which will ultimately tell in the great account of
bad habits. The old adage, ‘Wine is the milk of age,’ is not
supported by exact observation of facts. For more than twenty
years I have had occasion to notice a great number of instances
of the sudden disuse of wine without mischievous results. On the
contrary, the disuse has generally been followed by an improvement
of appetite, freedom from habitual headache, and a tranquil state
of body and mind. Those who have been educated to the use of
wine do, indeed, find some inconvenience from the substitution
of a free use of water. If, however, they begin by taking the
pure fluid in moderate quantities only, no such inconvenience
occurs. The preceding remarks may be applied to beer, cider, and
other fermented liquors. After the age of sixty, I myself gave
up the habit of drinking wine; and, so far from experiencing any
inconvenience, I have found my health better without it than with
it.”

Dr. Warren’s exhortations against the use of tobacco are very
forcible. He says: “The habit of smoking impairs the natural taste
and relish for food, lessens the appetite, and weakens the powers
of the stomach. Tobacco, being drawn in with the vital breath,
conveys its poisonous influence into every part of the lungs. The
blood, having imbibed the narcotic principle, circulates it through
the whole system. Eruptions on the skin, weakness of the stomach,
heart, and lungs, dizziness, headache, confusion of thought, and
a low febrile action must be the consequence. Where there is any
tendency to diseases of the lungs, the debility of these organs
consequent on the smoking of tobacco must favor the deposit of
tuberculous matter, and thus sow the seeds of consumption.

“Snuff received into the nostrils enters the cavities opening
from them, and makes a snuff-box of the olfactory apparatus. The
voice is consequently impaired, sometimes to a remarkable degree.
I knew a gentleman of the legal profession who, from the use of
snuff occasionally, lost the power of speaking audibly in court.
Moreover, portions of this powder are conveyed into the lungs and
stomach, and exert on those organs their deleterious effects.

“The worst form in which tobacco is employed is in chewing.
This vegetable is one of the most powerful of narcotics. A very
small portion of it--say a couple of drachms, and perhaps even
less--received into the stomach might prove fatal. When it is
taken into the mouth in smaller portions, and there retained some
time, an absorption of part of it into the system takes place,
which has a most debilitating effect. If we wished to reduce our
physical powers in a slow yet certain way, we could not adopt a
more convenient process. The more limited and local effects are
indigestion, fixed pains about the region of the stomach, debility
of the back, affections of the brain, producing vertigo, and also
affections of the mouth, generating cancer.”

Too much cannot be said in favor of frequently washing the whole
person in cold water, or, if not entirely cold in winter, at least
as nearly so as it can be without producing a chill. It operates
both as a purifier and a tonic. The health in all respects greatly
depends upon keeping the pores of the skin open. Attacks of
rheumatism might often be warded off by this habit. The washing
should be in a warm room, and followed immediately by a smart
rubbing with a coarse towel.

When wounds, bruises, or cracks in the skin become inflamed and
feverish, there is no application better than a linen rag, doubled
six or eight times, wet with cold water, and bound on with a thick,
dry, cotton bandage, which completely covers it. Inveterate sores
will be healed by a repetition of this application. The same is
true of sore throat; but the wet cloth should be carefully and
completely covered with dry woollen, so as to exclude the air. When
removed, it should be done soon after one rises in the morning;
the throat should then be plentifully sponged with cold water, and
wiped thoroughly dry. There is danger of taking cold after the
application of hot or warm water; but it is not so with the use of
cold water.

It is a great preservation to the eyesight to plunge the face into
cold water every morning, and wink the eyes in it while one counts
thirty or forty. In order to do this, one must draw in the breath
when about to plunge the head into the water, and hold the breath
while it remains there. It seems difficult to do this at first,
but it soon becomes easy. It is well to repeat the operation six
or eight times every morning. In cold weather, put in warm water
enough to prevent a painful chill.

Before retiring to rest, great care should be taken to remove
every particle of food from between the teeth with a tooth-pick
of willow, or ivory, and cleanse the mouth very thoroughly by
the use of the brush, and rinsing. It is more important at night
than in the morning; because during sleep an active process of
fermentation goes on, which produces decay. It is an excellent plan
to hold a piece of charcoal in the mouth frequently. It arrests
incipient toothache and decay, and tends to preserve the teeth by
its antiseptic properties. If chewed, it should not be swallowed,
except occasionally, and in small quantities; and it should never
be rubbed on the teeth, as it injures the enamel.

Old people are generally reluctant to admit that the present
generation is wiser than the past; but in one respect all must
allow that there is obvious improvement. Far less medicine is taken
than formerly; and more attention is paid to diet. Still, people by
no means pay sufficient attention to the good old maxim, “An ounce
of prevention is worth a pound of cure.” Nature gives us kindly
warnings, which we thoughtlessly neglect. When the head aches and
the skin is hot, we often continue to eat hearty food, merely
because we like the taste of it; and the result of this imprudence
is a fever, which might have been easily and cheaply prevented by
living two or three days on bread and water, or simple gruels.

Fruits are among the best as well as the pleasantest of remedies.
Fresh currants agree with nearly all dyspeptics, and are excellent
for people of feverish tendencies; cranberries also. The abundant
use of apples is extremely conducive to health. The free use
of grapes is said to cure liver-complaints, and to be in other
respects salutary for the system. Linnæus tells us that he was
cured of severe rheumatism by eating strawberries, and that he
afterward habitually resorted to them when he had an attack of
that painful disease. Captain Cook has also recorded, that when he
touched at an island where strawberries were in great profusion,
the crew devoured them eagerly, and were cured of a scorbutic
complaint, which had afflicted them greatly. Lemonade and oranges
are recommended for rheumatism; vegetable acids in general being
salutary for that disease.
          Mother Nature is much kinder to us than we are
            to ourselves. She loves to lead us gently,
               and the violent reactions from which
                 we suffer we bring upon ourselves
                   by violating the laws she is
                      constantly striving to
                             teach us.

[Illustration]

    “How shall I manage to be healthy?” said a wealthy invalid to
    the famous Dr. Abernethy. “Live on sixpence a day, and earn
    it,” was his laconic reply.




[Illustration]




THE INVALID’S PRAYER


  O thou, whose wise, paternal love
    Hath cast my active vigor down,
  Thy choice I thankfully approve;
    And, prostrate at Thy gracious throne,
  I offer up my life’s remains;
  I choose the state my God ordains.

  Cast as a broken vessel by,
    Thy will I can no longer do;
  But while a daily death I die,
     power I can in weakness show;
  My patience shall thy glory raise,
  My steadfast trust proclaim thy praise.

                        WESLEY.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Trials make our faith sublime,
    Trials give new life to prayer,
  Lift us to a holier clime,
    Make us strong to do and bear.

                        COWPER.




[Illustration]




THE OLD PASTOR AND HIS SON.

FROM THE GERMAN OF JEAN PAUL RICHTER.


In the little village of Heim, Gottreich Hartmann resided with his
old father, who was a curate. The old man had wellnigh outlived
all those whom he had loved, but he was made happy by his son.
Gottreich discharged for him his duties in the parish, not so
much in aid of his parent’s untiring vigor, as to satisfy his own
energy, and to give his father the exquisite gratification of being
edified by his child and companion.

In Gottreich there thrilled a spirit of true poetry; and his
father also had, in his youth, a poet’s ardor, of like intensity,
but it had not been favored by the times. Son and father seemed
to live in one another; and on the site of filial and paternal
love there arose the structure of a rare and peculiar friendship.
Gottreich not only cheered his father by the new birth of his own
lost poet-youth, but by the still more beautiful similarity of
their faith. The father found again his old Christian heart sending
forth new shoots in the bosom of Gottreich, and moreover the best
justification of the convictions of his life and of his love.

If it be pain for us to love and to contradict at the same time,
to refuse with the head what the heart grants, it is all the
sweeter to us to find ourselves and our faith transplanted into a
younger being. Life is then as a beautiful night, in which, as one
star goes down, another rises in its place. Gottreich possessed
a paradise, in which he labored as his father’s gardener. He was
at once the wife, the brother, the friend of his parent; the
all that is to be loved by man. Every Sunday brought him a new
pleasure,--that of preaching a sermon before his father. If the
eyes of the old man became moistened, or if he suddenly folded his
hands in an attitude of prayer, that Sunday became the holiest of
festivals. Many a festival has there been in that quiet little
parsonage, the joyfulness of which no one understood and no one
perceived. The love and approbation of an energetic old man, like
Hartmann, whose spiritual limbs had by no means stiffened on the
chilly ridge of years, could not but exercise a powerful influence
on a young man like Gottreich, who, more tenderly and delicately
formed both in body and mind, was wont to shoot forth in loftier
and more rapid flame.

To these two happy men was added a happy woman also. Justa, an
orphan, sole mistress of her property, had sold the house which had
been her father’s in the city, and had removed into the upper part
of a good peasant’s cottage, to live entirely in the country. Justa
did nothing by halves; she often did things more than completely,
as most would think at least, in all that touched her generosity.
She had not long resided in the village of Heim, and seen the meek
Gottreich, and listened to some of his spring-tide sermons, ere
she discovered that he had won her heart, filled as it was with
the love of virtue. She nevertheless refused to give him her hand
until the conclusion of the great peace, after which they were to
be married. She was ever more fond of doing what is difficult than
what is easy. I wish it were here the place to tell of the May-time
life they led, which seemed to blossom in the low parsonage-house,
near the church-door, under Justa’s hand; how she came from her own
cottage, in the morning, to order matters in the little dwelling
for the day; how the evenings were passed in the garden, ornamented
with a few pretty flower-beds, and commanding a view of many a
well-watered meadow, and distant hill, and stars without number;
how these three hearts played into one another, no one of which,
in this most pure and intimate intercourse, knew or felt anything
which was not of the fairest; and how cheerfulness and good
intention marked the passage of their lives. Every bench was a
church seat, all was peaceful and holy, and the firmament above was
an infinite church-dome.

In many a village and in many a house is hidden a true Eden, which
has neither been named nor marked down; for happiness is fond of
covering over and concealing her tenderest flowers. Gottreich
reposed in such tenderness of love and bliss, of poetry and
religion, of spring-time, of the past and of the future, that, in
the depths of his heart, he feared to speak out his happiness, save
in prayer. In prayer, thought he, man may say all his happiness and
his misery. His father was very happy also. There came over him a
warm old age; no winter night, but a summer evening without chill
or darkness; albeit the sun of his life was sunk pretty deep below
the mound of earth under which his wife was lain down to sleep.

In these sweetest May-hours of youth, when heaven and earth and his
own heart were beating together in triune harmony, Gottreich gave
ardent words to his ardent thoughts, and kept them written down,
under the title of “Reminiscences of the best Hours of Life, for
the Hour of Death.” He meant to cheer himself, in his last hours,
with these views of his happy life; and to look back, through them,
from the glow of his evening to the bright morning of his youth.

Thus lived these three beings, even rejoicing more deeply in one
another, and in their genial happiness, when the chariots of war
began to roll over the land.[N] Gottreich became another man.
The active powers of his nature, which had heretofore been the
quiet audience of his poetical and oratorical powers, now arose.
It seemed as if the spirit of energy, which hitherto had wasted
itself on empty air, like the flames of a bituminous soil, were now
seeking an object to lay hold of. He did not venture to propose
separating from his father, but he alternately refreshed and
tormented himself inwardly with the idea of sharing the labors and
combats of his countrymen. He confided his wishes to Justa only;
but she did not give him encouragement, because she feared the old
man’s solitude would be too great for him to bear. But at last the
old man himself became inspirited for the war, by Gottreich and
his betrothed; and he said to his son that he had better go; that
he knew he had long desired it, and had only been silent through
love for him. He hoped, with God’s aid, to be able to discharge
his pastoral duties for a year, and thus he also would be doing
something to serve his country.

    [N] The war of 1813, against Napoleon, to secure the
        independence of Germany.

Gottreich departed, trusting to the autumnal strength of his
father’s life. He enlisted as a common soldier, and preached also
wherever he was able. The entrance on a new career awakens new
energies and powers, which rapidly unfold into life and vigor.
Although fortune spared him the wounds which he would willingly
have brought back with him into the peaceful future of his life, in
memory of the focus of his youth, as it were, yet it was happiness
enough to take part in the battles, and, like an old republican, to
fight together with a whole nation, for the common cause.

At length, in the beautiful month of May, the festivals of victory
and peace began in more than one nation; and Gottreich was
unwilling to pass those days of rejoicing so far from the friends
who were dearest to him. He longed for their company, that his joy
might be doubled; so he took the road to Heim. Thousands at that
time journeyed over the liberated land, from a happy past to a
happy future. But there were few who saw, like Gottreich, so pure a
firmament over the mountains of his native valleys, in which not a
star was missing, but every one of them was bright and twinkling.
Justa had, from time to time, sent him the little annals of the
parsonage. She had written how she longed for his return, and how
his father rejoiced; how well the old man stood the labors of his
office; and how she had still better secrets in store for him. To
these belonged, perhaps, her promise, which he had not forgotten,
to give him her hand after the great peace.

With such prospects before him, Gottreich ever enjoyed in thought
that holy evening when he should see the sun go down at Heim,--when
he should arrive unexpectedly, to relieve the old man from all
his cares, and begin to prepare the tranquil festivities of the
village. As he was thinking of that day’s meeting, when he should
clasp those fond hearts to his own, and as the mountains above his
father’s village were seen more and more clearly in relief against
the blue sky, the Reminiscences of the best hours of life, which
he had written for the hour of death, echoed and re-echoed in his
soul; and, as he went along, he dwelt particularly upon one among
them, which commemorated the joy of meeting again here below.

A shower was coming up behind him, of which he seemed to be the
happy messenger; for the parched ground, the drooping flowers, and
the ears of corn had long been thirsting for water from the warm
clouds. A parishioner of Heim, who was laboring in the fields,
saluted him as he passed, and expressed joy that Gottreich and
the rain had both come at last. Soon he caught sight of the low
church-steeple, peeping above the clustered trees; and he entered
upon that tract in the valley where the parsonage lay, all reddened
by the evening sun. At every window he hoped to see his betrothed
one, thinking perchance she might be looking out on the sunset
before the storm came on. As he drew nearer, he hoped to see the
lattice open, and Whitsuntide-brooms in the chief apartment; but
he saw nothing of all this.

At last, he quietly entered the parsonage-house, and slowly opened
the well-known door. The room was empty, but he heard a noise
overhead. When he entered the chamber, it was filled with a glow
from the west, and Justa was kneeling by the bed of his father,
who was sitting half upright, and looking, with a stiff, haggard
countenance, toward the setting sun before him. One exclamation,
and a clasp of her lover to her breast, was all his reception.
His father stretched out his withered hand slowly, and said, with
difficulty, “Thou art come at the right time”; but without adding
whether he spoke of the preachings, or alluded to their approaching
separation. Justa hastily related how the old man had overworked
himself, till body and spirit had given way together, so that he
no longer took a share in anything, though he longed to be with
the sharers; and how he lay prostrate, with broken wings, looking
upward, like a helpless child. The old man had grown so hard of
hearing, that she could say all this in his presence.

Gottreich would fain have infused into that old and once strong
heart the fire of victory which was reflected in his own bosom; but
he heard neither wish nor question of it. The old man continued to
gaze steadily upon the setting sun, and at last it was hidden by
the storm-clouds. The landscape grew dark, the winds stood pent,
and the earth was oppressed. Suddenly there came a gush of rain
and a crash of thunder. The lightning flashed around the old man.
He looked up, altered and astonished. “Hist!” he said; “I hear the
rain once more. Speak quickly, children, for I shall soon depart!”
Both his children clung to him, but he was too weak to embrace them.

And now warm, refreshing fountains from the clouds bathed all
the sick earth, from the dripping trees to the blades of grass.
The sky glistened mildly, as with tears of joy, and the thunder
went rumbling away behind the distant mountains. The sick man
pointed upward, and said: “Seest thou the majesty of God? My son,
now, in my last hour, strengthen my weary soul with something
holy,--something in the spirit of love, and not of penance; for if
our hearts condemn us not, then have we confidence toward God. Say
something to me rich in love of God and of his works.”

The eyes of the son overflowed, to think that he should read at the
death-bed of his father those Reminiscences which he had prepared
for his own. He said this to him, but the old man answered,
“Hasten, my son!” And, with faltering voice, Gottreich began to
read:--

“Remember, in thy dark hour, those times when thou hast prayed to
God in ecstasy, and when thou hast thought on him, the Infinite
One; the greatest thought of finite man.”

Here the old man clasped his hands, and prayed low.

“Hast thou not known and felt the existence of that Being, whose
infinity consists not only in his power, his wisdom, and his
eternity, but also in his love, and in his justice? Canst thou
forget the time when the blue sky, by day and by night, opened on
thee, as if the mildness of God was looking down on thee? Hast thou
not felt the love of the Infinite, when he veiled himself in his
image, the loving hearts of men; as the sun, which reflects its
light not on the moon only, but on the morning and evening star
also, and on every little twinkler, even the farthest from our
earth?

“Canst thou forget, in the dark hour, that there have been mighty
men among us, and that thou art following after them? Raise
thyself, like the spirits who stood upon their mountains, having
the storms of life only about them, never above them! Call back to
thee the kingly race of sages and poets, who have inspirited and
enlightened nation after nation!”

“Speak to me of our Redeemer,” said the father.

“Remember Jesus Christ, in the dark hour. Remember him, who also
passed through this life. Remember that soft moon of the Infinite
Sun, given to enlighten the night of the world. Let life be
hallowed to thee, and death also; for he shared both of them with
thee. May his calm and lofty form look down on thee in the last
darkness, and show thee his Father.”

A low roll of thunder was heard from clouds which the storm had
left. Gottreich continued to read:--

“Remember, in the last hour, how the heart of man can love. Canst
thou forget the love wherewith one heart repays a thousand hearts,
and the soul during a whole life is nourished and vivified from
another soul? Even as the oak of a hundred years clings fast to
the same spot, with its roots, and derives new strength, and sends
forth new buds during its hundred springs?”

“Dost thou mean me?” said the father.

“I mean my mother also,” replied the son.

The father, thinking on his wife, murmured very gently, “To meet
again. To meet again.” And Justa wept while she heard how her lover
would console himself in his last hours with the reminiscence of
the days of _her_ love.

Gottreich continued to read: “Remember, in the last hour, that pure
being with whom thy life was beautiful and great; with whom thou
hast wept tears of joy; with whom thou hast prayed to God, and in
whom God appeared unto thee; in whom thou didst find the first and
last heart of love;--and then close thine eyes in peace!”

Suddenly, the clouds were cleft into two huge black mountains;
and the sun looked forth from between them, as it were, out of a
valley between buttresses of rock, gazing upon the earth with its
joy-glistening eye.

“See!” said the dying man. “What a glow!”

“It is the evening sun, father.”

“This day we shall see one another again,” murmured the old man. He
was thinking of his wife, long since dead.

The son was too deeply moved to speak to his father of the
blessedness of meeting again in this world, which he had enjoyed by
anticipation during his journey. Who could have courage to speak of
the joys of an earthly meeting to one whose mind was absorbed in
the contemplation of a meeting in heaven?

Gottreich, suddenly startled, asked, “Father, what ails thee?”

“I do think thereon; and death is beautiful, and the parting
in Christ,” murmured the old man. He tried to take the hand of
Gottreich, which he had not strength to press. He repeated, more
and more distinctly and emphatically, “O thou blessed God!” until
all the other luminaries of life were extinguished, and in his soul
there stood but the one sun, God!

At length he roused himself, and, stretching forth his arm, said
earnestly, “There! there are three fair rainbows over the evening
sun! I must go after the sun, and pass through them with him.” He
sank backward, and was gone.

At that moment the sun went down, and a broad rainbow glimmered in
the east.

“He is gone,” said Gottreich, in a voice choked with grief. “But he
has gone from us unto his God, in the midst of great, pious, and
unmingled joy. Then weep no more, Justa.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  His youth was innocent; his riper age
    Marked with some act of goodness every day;
  And, watched by eyes that loved him, calm and sage,
    Faded his late declining years away.
  Cheerful he gave his being up, and went
  To share the holy rest that waits a life well spent.

  That life was happy. Every day he gave
    Thanks for the fair existence that was his;
  For a sick fancy made him not her slave,
    To mock him with her phantom miseries.
  No chronic tortures racked his aged limbs,
  For luxury and sloth had nourished none for him.

  Why weep ye, then, for him, who, having won
    The bound of man’s appointed years, at last,
  Life’s blessings all enjoyed, life’s labors done,
    Serenely to his final rest has passed,--
  While the soft memory of his virtues yet
  Lingers, like twilight hues when the bright sun is set?

                        W. C. BRYANT.




[Illustration]




REST AT EVENING.

BY ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.


  When the weariness of life is ended,
    And the task of our long day is done,
  And the props, on which our hearts depended,
    All have failed, or broken, one by one;
  Evening and our sorrow’s shadow blended,
    Telling us that peace has now begun.

  How far back will seem the sun’s first dawning,
    And those early mists so cold and gray!
  Half forgotten even the toil of morning,
    And the heat and burden of the day.
  Flowers that we were tending, and weeds scorning,
    All alike, withered and cast away.

  Vain will seem the impatient heart, that waited
    Toils that gathered but too quickly round;
  And the childish joy, so soon elated
    At the path we thought none else had found;
  And the foolish ardor, soon abated
    By the storm which cast us to the ground.

  Vain those pauses on the road, each seeming
    As our final home and resting-place;
  And the leaving them, while tears were streaming
    Of eternal sorrow down our face;
  And the hands we held, fond folly dreaming
    That no future could their touch efface.

  All will then be faded: Night will borrow
    Stars of light to crown our perfect rest;
  And the dim vague memory of faint sorrow
    Just remain to show us all was best;
  Then melt into a divine to-morrow:
    O, how poor a day to be so blest!

[Illustration]




Transcriber’s Notes


Italics are enclosed in _underscores_.

Hyphenation and spelling inconsistencies were not remedied, as this
book contains the works of many authors.

Punctuation and quotation marks were used inconsistently and often
poorly printed. Transcribers attempted to correct the poorly
printed ones and obvious unbalanced quotation marks.

Some attributions were italicized, while others were in small-caps.
Both styles retained here.

Text tapered in a “V” shape at the end of a chapter usually was
followed by a decorative illustration, but on pages 67 and 97
of the original book, there was insufficient room for them. For
consistency, Transcriber has added decorative illustrations on
those two pages, by duplicating an existing one from another page.

The illustration above the first story, “THE FRIENDS,” depicts an
eldery woman comparing the heights of two children.

The illustration at the very end of the book depicts an eldery
couple at a small table.

All of the other illustrations are decorative headpieces and
tailpieces.

The first letter of each story was shown in decorative form.

Page 284: “in a dream three several times” was printed that way.